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UP THE SEINE 
TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 



Books by ANNA BOWMAN DODD 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

CATHEDIL\L DAYS 

THE REPUBLIC OF THE FUTURE 

THREE NORMANDY INNS 

GLORINDA 

ON THE BROADS 

FALAISE: THE TOWN OF THE CONQUEROR 

THE AMERICAN HUSBAND IN PARIS 

IN AND OUT OF A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE 

ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 

HEROIC FRANCE 



UP THE SEINE 
TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

By 
ANNA BOWMAN DODD 

Author of 

"three NORMANDY inns" "FALAISE" 

"HEatoic prance" "on the knees of the gods" etc. 

Illustrated 




HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 






Af-h o'.: Ib^U 



Up the Skins to thk Battlb-Firlds 



Copyriuht 1920, by Harper & Brothers 

Printed ia the UnitoJ States of Anu-rica 

Published April, 19JO 



v^C!,A56G790 



CONTENTS 

CHAP. PACn 

Inthoduction — The Seine 1 

I. Havre 8 

n. Two Pleasure Towns — Tuouviij.e and Deau- 

viixE 29 

in. The Fuoht of an Empress 38 

IV. To IIONFLKUR — TirE ANCESTOR G8 

V. The FftTE of the Virgin 77 

VI. The Story of IIonfleur 98 

VII. A Grandson of Louis Philippe 110 

VIII. The Odyssey of a Kino and a Queen . . . 115 

IX. Up the Seine 150 

X. A Crossing at Quillereuf KJJ) 

XI. LiLLEBONNE 175 

XII. The Road to Caudedec — an Adventure . . 180 

XIII. Caudebec 200 

XIV. A Great Abbaye — St.-Wandrille 218 

XV. An Open-air Luncheon 233 

XVI. Le Trait — A Great Enterprise 239 

XVII. JumiJ:ges 247 

XVIII. DucLAiR 207 

XIX. The Last Voyage ' .' ... 270 

XX. Napoleon's Remains Conveyed from St. 

Helena up the Seine 284 

XXI. To the Docks of Rouen 318 

XXIL Roup:n— Seen in a Day 328 

XX III. William the Conqueror's Last Journey . . 340 

XXIV. On the Road to Amiens 3(il 

XXV. On the Road to the Battlefields .... 378 

XXVI. The Battle of Amiens 385 



ILLTTSTRATTONS 



The harbor of Havre in war-time .... 

King Francois the First 

Anne of Bourbon, Duchess of Longueville . 

Empress EuGJJiaE 

La Lieutenance at Honfleur 

King Louis Philippe 

Queen Marie-Am^ue 

The bell tower of Haiifleur in Normandy . 

Characteristic view of Norman scenery . . 

Church of Notre Dame at Caudebec . . . 

Cloister of the Abbaye of St.-Wandrille, near 
Caudebec (now the home of Maurice 
Maeterlinck) 

jumieges 

View of Duclair 

Church of the Abbaye of St. - George of 
bocherville 

Napoleon's adieu to France 

View of the quay at Rouen 



Frontispiec 



Fan 



ng p. 



18 

2G 
48 
72 
116 
140 
154 
18G 
212 



222 
248 

274 

280 
312 
328 



UP THE SEINE 
TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 



UP THE SEINE 
TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 



INTRODUCTION 



THE SEINE 



Of this river — the river that crosses all France — 
whose shores are starred with great cities, whose 
waters have mirrored Gallic boats, Roman galleys, 
Norman fleets, English galleons, and, in our day, 
have harbored the world's ships that have saved the 
world — of this river of France, famed since before 
Caesar looked out upon it through the silken cur- 
tains of his litter — how many soldiers, how many 
travelers know its true beauties? 

The Seine is really the unknown river. 

It is the Rhine rather than the Seine that tourists, 
hitherto, have felt impelled to traverse. We have 
all been brought up, indeed, to believe the Rhine 
was the true river of romance. Each castle we passed 
on this river the Germans call "Father Rhine" was 
the Lorelei that sang seductively of elves and fairies. 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Weird talcs and legends haunted every rock and 
forest. In our later, more enlightened, day, the 
Rhine is now chiefly important as being no longer 
"Germany's river," but her enforced frontier. 

From the point of view of its history, it has been 
said that "France is a person," and that in her 
geography she presents herself as a "Being." No- 
where will this sentient quality be as persistently 
felt as at this watery gateway of the Kingdom of 
Beauty we know as France. 

Between the headlands of Cap de la Heve and 
of Sainte - Adresse that seem to protect the great 
northern port of France — Havre — and the opposite 
coast of lower Normandy — Calvados — there pours 
into the ever - changing waters of the capricious 
Channel the mouth of the Seine. 

As though to present, at her very entrance gates, 
those striking contrasts which make France, geo- 
graphically, a "being" — a being endowed with the 
complexity of genius — we find on the coast of Cal- 
vados, opposite modernized, commercialized Havre, 
the two pleasure towns of Trouville and Deauville; 
and not eight miles away, farther up along the river- 
mouth, the ancient town of Honfleur rises up amid 
her green hills as though to symbolize the hoary 
antiquity of France itself. 

The immense arch of sky that spans these towns 
and the changeful mass of the commingling waters 
of sea and river give a grandeur to this gateway of 
France few countries present. And as there is a 
peculiar splendor in the breadth of this great ex- 



INTRODUCTION 

pause of waters, beneath the inverted cup of sky, 
it seems as tliough the mercurial qualities we discern 
in French character find their counterpart in this 
ever-changing, ever-alluring spectacle. As there is 
magnificence in the great outlook, so there is also 
gaiety, as infinite delicacy, and a suave charm in 
the tones and colors that light up the scene. 



II 

Why is it that not one traveler in a thousand, no, 
nor in tens of thousands has known the Seine shores 
as the shores of the Hudson are known — as the 
Rhine, for so many years, has been known and sung? 
Few Frenchmen even are fully aware of the wonders 
and beauties which a trip up the Seine will yield. 

The reasons, it appears to me, are obvious. 

At Havre, if you chance to land at that port, you 
are in haste to reach Paris. If you look out on the 
glittering waterway, you think of it chiefly as the 
Channel. It has, doubtless, never occurred to you 
to consider the great stretch of waters between 
Havre and the opposite Normandy coast as the gap- 
ing mouth of the Seine. 

At Rouen, should you linger to see the architect- 
ural wonders of the famous city, the river, down 
along the docks, you find, looks commonplace, with 
its factory chimneys dimming the horizon. The 
quays are, indeed, full of interest, since the shipping 
lining the docks Ls i)roof of Rouen's being the second 
great port of northern France. But there is no talis- 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

man io point the way to the wido-o])on rivoixspiicos, 
to I lie lowering clitls, and to the clialcaux-i)orchcd 
splendors that adorn the Seine shores. 

If, in Paris, the Seine seems chiefly ornamental 
in that it runs under beautiful bridges, and useful 
since it takes one from Notre-Dame to Suresnes 
for a song, yet liow can one have one's interest 
excited by a river, when a city as s])lendid as is Paris 
unrolls its glories, one by one? AVhen Notre-Dame 
blocks one end of the horizon, and the semi-JMoorish 
towers of the Trocad^ro the other? When along 
the sky-line one sees outlined the C'oneiergerie, the 
stately Institut de France, the noble lines of the 
Louvre, and Le Grand and Le Petit Palais? And 
when all the ohl houses between are telling you of 
the horrors and the gaieties, the fetes, and the revo- 
lutions they have survived? 

Yet what a romance indeed of daring adventure, 
of sieges, of the pomp and j>athos of dead kings 
floating do^^n its waters to their last res ling-place, 
of the safety sought by monarchs in flight, to gain 
its open port and harbors — wliat a long scroll of 
historic interest would you have found in this story 
of the Seine! 

In the very l)irtli of the river there are the ele- 
ments of romance. 

It is proof of that mstinct for allying art to nature, 

of that pagan siu'vival handed on through Ivoman 

occupation to Latinized France, that the river at 

its very source — in the remote hills the l^Vench 

poetically call La Cote-d'Or — the Golden Hillside — 

i 



INTRODUCTION 

we should find tlic Seine emer^^ing from the womb of 
Mollier Earth, in that province Shakespeare called 
"waterish Burgundy," and emerging with a certain 
spectacular pomp. The Romans had found the 
source of the Seine, and had worshiped tliere their 
river nymph in a tem])le erected to their deity. 
Long ago temple and goddess were a part of the ruins 
of the ages. 

In that remote corner of the Cote-d'Or, in a dense 
grove, however, there still trickles the slender 
stream. It formerly lost itself in a lap of verdure. 

Napoleon III found this birth of the great river 
of too plebeian an aspect. During his reign a some- 
what theatrical grotto was built. On the rock at 
the right there was placed a charming figure — a 
water-nymi)h. This modern figure, by Jouffroy, 
would be no water-sprite were she voluminously 
clothed. Gracefully reclining on her hard, rocky 
bed, in one hand this guardian of rivers holds an 
urn, from which trickles the rivulet. This slender 
streamlet is the Seine at its source. In her right 
hand the nymph uplifts a garland of fruits and 
flowers, as though to symbolize the abundant pros- 
I)erity her waters are to lave. 

Close to the statue are the ruins of the antique 
temple. The columns and statues lying about were 
formerly the decorative adjuncts of a shrine dedi- 
cated to the goddess Sequana, the Romans having 
carried to this remote corner of Gaul their tradi- 
tions of identifying the forces of nature with their 
gods and goddesses. 

2 ' 



UP THE SEINE TO THE 15ATTLEFIELDS 

I'lio colli urics tliat liavc rolled on hcneaili the 
aiT'lies oi' time, between the erection of tliat pagan 
temple and the bustling, crowded, super-modern 
cities that line the Seine's shores have seen France 
itself develop from a Latinized Gaul to be the great 
citadel of civilization. 

Great historic changes bring into the limelight of 
the world centers of interest hitherto neglected. 
Cities and countries deemed unimportant suddenly 
loom large. 

During the war, discoveries were made of certain 
natiu'al resources hitherto known, perhaps, but not 
utilized, in France, as in other countries. 

Not only was the Seine found to be navigable for 
very large shij)s, as far as Rouen, thus making of 
that city a second great port of northern France, 
but the Seine shores suddenly revealed themselves 
as mines of wealth for industrial and commercial 
purposes. Its forests could furnish valuable timber 
for constructive i)urposes, as its quarries would yield 
inexhaustible material for factory usages. Deep 
river soundings proved the possibility of ship-build- 
ing yards on a large scale. And thus, in four short 
years, behokl the Seine emerging into the intensive 
modern commercial life of the nations as a battle- 
ground for competitive acquisition of its wealth- 
yielding sites and docks. 

In a few short years, therefore, the Seine will 
no longer be the lovely river of beauty, with sur- 
prises at every turn for the exacting traveler. Tow- 
ering hill slopes, hislorie eliateaiix, antique-faced 



INTRODUCTION 

towns and villages, set in a frame surprisingly wild, 
and forests of an almost primeval aspect — such are 
the unsuspected features this unknown inland river 
still can yield. 

As the schie-de-decors of certain dramatic scenes 
in French history, the Seine has furnished the setting 
for some of the more tragic, as well as for certain 
pathetic episodes in France's checkered career. 

In our day, when monarchs have had to seek 
safety in flight; when Idngdoms and empires have 
crumbled as though at the touch of a magic-endowed, 
destructive hand; when revolution in as murderous 
and barbarous a form as the war waged by tlie 
Bolsheviki seems about to strangle in Russia the 
very liberties and freedom for which the Allies have 
fought — in our tragic day of stress and strain, it is 
well to recount again the stories of those kings and 
monarchs whose fortunes and fates have helped to 
mold France and also to precipitate the mighty 
drama of wliich we are a part. 

Above all else, a voyage up the Seine yields to 
the most traveled tourist a new route, fresh sensa- 
tions, novelties in scenic and in architectural splen- 
dors, as it also presents the delectable contrast of a 
prosperous France to her devastated regions. 



CHAPTER I 



HAVRE 



AN immense arch of sky, the moving, ilkimined 
•"^*- face of the waters, ships and fishing-boats 
ghding out of Havre's inner basin to the open sea, 
and transports ahned like spectral sentinels in the 
roads were seen through the morning's haze. 

The very air was still. The morning's quiet was 
broken only by the tooting of shrill whistles, by a 
fisherman's rauque cry, and by the squealing of sea- 
gulls, mounting, soaring, beating the air, others 
dipping straight down. 

The morning sun was now gradually opening its 
mist-clouded eyes. Shrouded in those tinted veils, 
the morning had the white pallor of a timid bride. 
The risen sun might have been her torch-bearer. 
As the torch burned brighter the mist's trans- 
parencies were pierced 

Havre's long lines of docks, quays, factories, and 
shipping were transfigured by the glow. The city 
wore iridescent tints 

The great headland of Sainte-Adresse towered 
ftbove seas and city. The sun-rays smote her breast, 



HAVRE 

glorifying houses, villas, and her gay gardens. As 
Atlienian lovers of the great Greek age hung gar- 
lands on the doors of those whose favors they 
craved, France, in this, her flower-decked headland, 
seems ever luring the sea with her Sainte-Adresse 
walls and terraces flinging their rose-petals out to 
the blue waters. 

From the heights one looks down upon the glitter-^ 
ing water-spaces of the Seine's wide channel that 
loses itself in English mists. The city at one's feet 
stretches on and on, its port, docks, quays, suburbs, 
its basins and ship-building yards carrying the eye 
on to its neighbor Ilarfleur, six kilometers away. 
Across the moving face of the waters, the undulating 
coast-line of the green Normandy hills dips and rises — 
a prospect such as only one other city in the world 
can rival, since we have Casimir Delavigne's out- 
burst to emphasize the statement: 

*' Apr^s Constantinople — il n'est rien d'aussi beau!'* 
The city of Havre, seen from the opposite Nor- 
mandy coast, becomes a city of enchantment. It is 
as decorative in its contrasting and varying effects 
of color and tone as is Venice. It rises from the 
arms of its sea lover with the same effortless charm 
of a water-born city. It is luminous, iridescent; it 
disappears behind its mists as an Oriental woman 
masks herself in her veil; its long lines of light at 
night, stretching from her port entrance to Ilar- 
fleur, are now like a necklace of star-gems worn by 
a water-queen, now delicate points of light piercing 
cloudy vestments of fog. 



Ur THE SEINE TO 'I'UE lUrrLEllELDS 

Tlio two ^ivat liarbor li^lits stab tlio ni^lit, the 
ono with its Ihisliing crystal brilHaiur, the otlior 
witli its upspnni;iiiiij orimson dart, as though oach 
wore in ri^•aIry to outdo tlio other in some nuuxh'rous 
attempt to eon(]uer tlie darkness. And that nu- 
cha Hiiinii:, rliythmie beat, that mechanical ])nlsc upon 
the ni;j:hl silence, is the sailor's silent guide to the 
haN'cn bt^low the hills. 

Thousands and thousands of American and Eng- 
lish soldiers, t)n landing at Havre, saw the city ns 
we arc now looking out upon it from the sea. They 
liavc caught their first glimpse of the land they had 
come to defend, as their shii)s came to anchor in 
these Ha^Te roads. From across the ships' sides, 
how eagerly the quick-glancing soldiers' eyes have 
taken in that magnificent outlook! 

The eyes of the men from New England, from 
Arkansas, from Nebraska, from adventurous Cali- 
fornia, as from England, Scotland, Australia, Canada, 
New Zealantl, India, and Algiers, have stretched 
beyond that green hill of Sainte-Adresse to fasten 
on the massed gray roofs, on the strange-faced 
French houses, and on the forest of ships' masts 
crowding Havre's inner docks as though this, their 
first French town, were to reveal to them the secret 
of I he charm thai luul I he magic to draw them to 
help tlcfcnd her huul and their own. How eager 
were the wide yoimg eyes! What shouts and cries 
responded lo the rapturous French greetings on 
shore! What quick, elastic pliability to new ways 
anil lo new melhods of life and living were (piickly 

10 



HAVRE 

provod by the heroes wlio were to lielj) dcfcuL Llic 
^Tciilest Jiiih'liiry power ever known! 

Tliosc gr.'iA -fuccd Jion.scs Icjiniii^" ovi'r Iljivre's 
(plays heciiine as fumiHar as tliose of I licir own Iionics. 
All Llie world, lilcrally all the world, now knows llios<^ 
aneient, tatU^rdonaiion houses as few others in 
I'^ranee are known. Nearly every raee of men peo- 
j)Iiii^' IIm* earth has been staring at tlieni, laughing 
at I hem, sliouling as ihey first jii)i)roacli<'d them, 
cluM-ring as tlu-y saw tlicm vanisli inlo llu; dijn dis- 
tance. For as those gray faces retreated, visions of 
English homes, of American licarthstones, of India's 
brilliant-hued lemj)les, and of Senegalese huts drew 
nearer. 

II 

Enter the city, and, like many another beauty svv.n 
at close quarters, Havre spells a certain disenchant- 
ment. 

As one passes through the loo narrow harbor 
entrance the first impression is, however, at once 
satisfying and exhilarating. This first French city 
bears the distinctive national, racial stamp. Its 
features are characteristically Erench. 

Tlie very colors of the fishing-smacks l>obbing 
a})out on the undulating waters, tlic ocher-tinted 
or deep-crimson sails, the painted boats, tlie sailors' 
and (isliermen's berets and jerseys, th<isunk(;n wrecks 
(still weirdly striped wilh their camouflage bands of 
greens and blues) and the sea-going sliijjs moored to 
the docks — make brilliauL noles of contrasting effect. 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Above the quays, to the left, there is the pebbly, 
stony beach below the familiar white fagade of 
Frascati's. Then comes the long line of Havre's 
most distinctive feature — that slanting, irregular line 
of its sagging, leaden-faced or painted houses. There 
are houses with blue blinds, houses with signs hang- 
ing crooked or with a string of frowzy heads 
craning down from a seventh- or eighth-story 
window. 

It is on entering the city one experiences one's 
first disillusion. 

The luminous effects seen from the water or from 
the Normandy coast are gone. Havre's narrow 
streets, her ill-kept pavements, hor few imposing 
public buildings, her restricted residential quarter, 
and the squalor of her dark, reeking alleys are hardly 
relieved by the brilliant parterres of superb flowers 
in her public gardens, and by the brightness of her 
gaily decorated shops in her two fine boulevards. 

It was to such a congested little city, its harbors 
already avowedly inadequate for pre-war shipping 
accommodations, that Havre awoke, in early August, 
to the startling surprise she was to be the chosen 
port for many of England's "first himdred thousand " 
— and for five long years thereafter for how many 
more millions of men, from all over the world, and 
for how nuiiiy millions of tons of supplies and 
stores ! 

This is to be no war book — nor is it to be a war 
record. But no story of Havre, the Seine's great 
sea sentinel, would be complete without at least a 

12 



HAVRE 

cursory review of the prodigious effort made to 
meet the tremendous task her position as the first 
great port of northern France imposed uj^on her. 

After the first stupor into which Havre was 
plunged by the gradually dawning knowledge she 
was to be the first great receiving center of thou- 
sands and thousands of overseas troops; that there 
were to be poured upon her docks tons and tons of 
stores of all sorts and kinds; that hundreds and 
hundreds of transports must be met in the roads; 
that camps must be built for soldiers of every race 
— and almost of every color, Havre awoke froni 
her dazed state and proceeded to meet every 
demand upon her with a courage, an initiative, 
and a daring supposed to be peculiarly American 
traits. 

The story of Havre during the great war has been 
told again and again. Few of her historians, however, 
have done fidl justice to the surprises she gave 
France, and the world in general, by her suddenly 
developed territorial expansion. 

Cities began to grow about Havre with a rapidity 
as startling as was the diversity of their character. 

One of these cities was the huge English camp at 

Harfleur, where soldiers, on landing at Havre, were 

immediately marched to their quarters, to the tents 

and barracks set in their frames of green. Recruits 

were trained on these Harfleur heights, and any day 

you could l)elieve it was ancient Greece and not 

France in which you were living, as you looked on 

the graceful poses of men hurling Iiand-grenades 

13 



IIP THE SEINi: TO TTIE BATTLEFIELDS 

with the same j)ose aiul gesture you may find 
sculptured in antique marbh'. 

Tliere was the more scattered city of the hospitals. 

Casinos and hotels at Sainte-Adresse were requisi- 
tioned; and duj'ing all the long months of the great 
war men of every race and color were to be seen 
hanging across the wide balustrades of balconies, 
in their convalescent state. lender the stinudating 
sea air, under the quickening of the sun-rays, wounds 
quickly healed, and health became as contagious 
as disease. 

There was also Ihe Belgian city on these heights. 
Those charming little villas, built by Dufayel, the 
originator of this hillside as a residential quarter — 
contiguous to Havre — these villas that were nested 
in gardens, that terraced the hill slope — villas that 
seemed built solely to house love and lovers — were 
the homes of saddened Belgian statesmen. Here were 
lioused all the diplomatic and official world from 
Brussels. Here on this Sainte-Adresse headland was 
the Belgian governing power, the arsenal of the heroic 
civic and diplonuitic Belgian forces — with two great 
figures lacking — the king and Cardinal Mercier. 

Still another war city, in Havre, was her city of 
wharves and docks. Day after day, month after 
month, camouflaged shii>s, transj^orts and torpedo- 
boats packed every inch of Havre's all too scant 
harbor space. Soldiers crowded the shii)s from our 
own country, as from every one of England's i>atri- 
otic colonies and from every corner of the British 
Isles, save rebellious Ireland. 

14 



HAVRE 

There was also ilie city of the skies. 

For four long years, up in the regions of the 
vasty blue deeps, dirigibles, the eyes of the aviation 
fleet, would sail forth, peer down into the ocean 
depths, and once an enemy submarine was descried, 
presto! the telephonic message gave the exciting 
signal. 

Out from their sheds along the shores the winged 
fleet soared aloft. All the skies were then pulsating 
with the vibration of throbbing motors. A swoop 
downward, a pique, and out through the azure a 
bomb would turn the seas to a splashing fountain. 
An oily, besmirched sea surface would prove, pres- 
ently, that a certain number of Germans had been 
sent to the only world where they could do no harm. 

Below the skies, there was the incredibly mixed 
world of all those nations that meet, but do not 
melt. 

Abroad upon the Havre streets you would face 
Senegalese, Annamites, and Algerians; you would 
see negroes oozing from the bowels of deep ships, 
or coiled, in sensuous sleep, along the docks. Ind- 
ians wearing their khaki with the dignity of an- 
other race, their turbans seeming to crown their 
shapely heads, would pass, but would not elbow the 
(.'hinese coolie or the Japanese aide. Sturdy English 
Tommies, on leave from their camp at Harfleur, 
would crowd every available caf4 table for the sa- 
cred ceremony of afternoon tea; and our own athletic 
American soldiers would climb the hill above Havre 
to gain the Y. M. C. A. huts — that city also on the 

15 



UP THfe SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

heights — the city of the cinema, the gramophone, 
the lecture-platform — and the profitable shop. 

Threading his way through all this new world of 
men, marching or strolling with the nonchalant step 
of the man who treads his own home soil, you would 
have met the poilu, in his horizon blues, little 
dreaming, so long as the war was on, of the hero 
buttoned up within his ill-fitting uniform. His dis- 
covery of his value has come later — as the discon- 
certing protest of repeated strikes has proved to an 
amazed world. 

in 

Havre, now peace has come, has recaptured her 
semi-provincial calm. Walk through her boulevards 
and you will find a kind of dulled Parisian movement. 
Her great days are now a part of history. 

Havre, however, has the responsive vibration of 
her nationality to great movements. Let the city 
be touched by the magic wand of a world crisis 
and she will be again alive to her finger-tips. She 
is already sentient with the nervous, elastic power 
of new and latent forces. 

Havre is planning great enterprises; new activities 
in her commercial, industrial, and maritime life are 
being developed. The after-war momentum will 
carry her ambitious efforts to the attainment of 
fresh conquests. 

Those of you who cross her streets and squares, 

and find Havre chiefly interesting because she is 

French, and not because she is beautiful, could never 

16 



HAVRE 

invest her modern thoroughfare, her bright shops, 
and her squahd alleys with any sentiment bequeathed 
from a past rich in romance. 

Yet has Havre a story to tell that many a more 
famous city of great adventures may envy. 

She had the best of beginnings for the recital of 
a fairy tale. She began her existence as the hum- 
blest of the humble. She started in life with a small 
group of fishermen's huts, buried in sand-dunes. 
Above this squalid village, on the hill slope above, 
stood a tiny chapel, known as La Chapelle of Le 
Havre de Grace. Hence her earlier name of Havre 
de Grace. 

Two kings may be said to have held her over the 
baptismal font of her seas. One king, Louis XII, 
discovered in this unknown fishing village the possi- 
bilities of a great port. The second king, Francis 
I, Louis XII's successor, adopted the outcast. Hav- 
ing paid sixty ducats for his right to own a large 
part of Havre, Francis I made the best bargain 
any French king ever transacted. 

Francis I, who did nothing by halves, immediately 
proceeded to rear the infant port, to dot it, and to 
enrich it. 

In those days when Europe was emerging from 
the more or less anarchic conditions of the so-called 
Middle Ages, the best of the kings who ruled, who 
were endowed with the talents of true leaders, what, 
in point of fact were they, if not the greater advent- 
urers .f* They took the road that led to change, to 

improvement; they started forth to paint the world 

17 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

in new colors. Such kings had the prophetic 
vision. 

The king who came after this Louis — the true 
discoverer of Havre — was the very prince of royal 
adventurers. In love, in war, in captivity, in mag- 
nificence, and in the art of leading his people out 
from the lingering bondage of medieval darkness to 
riot in the full sun of Renaissance splendor, who 
can rival Francis I? 

In the Louvre, in Paris, you may look upon the 
face of this great king, one that Havre grew to know 
as well as the faces of her own fisherfolk. That 
long oval, that fine Gallic brow, the prodigiously 
elongated straight nose — the nose even Titian must 
render distinctive rather than distinguished — the 
bearded cheeks and chin, the full Roman lips, and 
above all, the eye — dark, protruding, voluptuously 
lidded — the seeing eye of the lover of art and of a 
beautiful woman — here before you on the canvas 
you, too, grow to know, with an intimate sense of 
satisfaction, the countenance as well as much of 
the nature and character of the man who opened 
the great doors on France's Vita Nuova, on her new, 
on her truly modern career. 

Francis I had come from Italy, flushed with his 
triumph. He was fresh from liis victory — he had 
won Milan from the Sforzas. 

His mind was saturated with the Renaissance 
spirit; he was still warmed with the glow of her intel- 
lectual activities, with the power and splendor of 

her artistic development. 

18 




KING FRANCOIS THE FIRST 
From a painting by Titian 



HAVRE 

Francis I brought to France, as he was to prove 
in his entcr])rises at Havre, a new view of kingly 
conduct. This was the gift he brought from Italy 
with which to enrich his own kingdom — and Havre. 
He had seen the great ItaHan and Venetian ports 
crowded with shipping. What had France to show 
compared to these great workl centers of maritime 
power? Two ports on a river — Honfleur and Har- 
fleur! And the latter was being rapidly filled up 
with the mud of the Seine and with sand. Who 
could compare such ports with Genoa or with Venice? 

Francis I did nothing indeed by halves. What- 
soever he planned had to be executed in a royal 
way. Whether it was decking France with magnifi- 
cent palaces, or pitting himself against the greatest 
master-mind, as emperor and general, in Europe; 
or in the matter of love-making; or luring to France 
such artists as Cellini, as Primaticio, above all 
others, as Leonardo da Vinci; whatever Francis I 
conceived, created, desired, or attracted by reason 
of his imaginative grasp and his magnetic charm, 
must be of a splendor commensurate with the large- 
ness of a mind to whom small ways and petty am- 
bitions were deemed unworthy of a French king. 

Orders were given to the commandant of Hon- 
fleur to construct a "great port" at Havre, one to 
harbor "the great ships of our kingdom and those 
of our allies." Privileges were lavishly granted. 
The town must be peopled and finely built. Havre 
de Grace promptly took the king at his word, and 
proceeded to grow and grow. 

19 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Havre may, indeed, be said to have forestalled 
certain modern methods in bnsiness — if indeed the 
robbing of one's brother be not as old a crime as 
the first man who had one. 

HaM-e's prosperity was built on Honflem-'s rnin. 
As tliongh it were not enough of bitterness for Ilon- 
flenr to see her own docks deserted, her cargoes 
shi})ped at nouveau riche, plebeian Havre, it was part 
of her punishment for being on a river ratlier than on 
the sea to find her executioner in her own governor. 

The commandant of Honfleur was ordered to go 
at once to Havre de Grace ofin d'y percer et con- 
fifrnirc a great i>ort. And the great port was promptly 
brought to com])letion. 

It has not only been the truism of our own world 
that great fleets, fine ports, and large armies are 
as so many fingers pointing the way to easy con- 
quest; Francis no sooner had his port and harbors 
than he proceeded to utilize them. 

Havre's harbors seemed to promise extraordinary 
facilities for approaching England's white cliffs. The 
king saw the possibility of his itch for the conquest 
of P^nglish territory being realized through his great 
harbors. William the Conqueror, and later Naj)o- 
leon, were not the only French monarclis whose 
nights were troubled with that vision. 

IV 

Francis came down from Paris to lead in person 
the great expedition he had i)lanned to capture the 



HAVRE 

English fleet oflf the Isle of Wight. There were one 
hundred and seventy-six vessels in his fleet, one in 
those days deemed invincible. 

He gave a great feast before the departure of the 
fleet to the governor of Havre, to the admirals 
and generals of the army and navy about to start 
forth. 

Francis, fresh from the splendor of his own great 
court, with his luxurious tastes, his suite, with their 
customary costumes of satins and i>lumes and 
slashed doublets — where was such a company to 
find resting-place in so rude a little town? Let us 
try to picture that scene when Francis came down 
to inspect wharves and quays and basins — works 
he found already "well under way." He would 
have found the embryonic city just emerging from 
its chrysalis state of fishermen's huts and rude cot- 
tages. Timbered houses newly thatched, with 
coarse carvings on door-jambs and lintels; streets 
newly laid out — the accepted sixteenth-century 
street, without gutter or sidewalk, inches, if not 
feet, deep in mud and filth; and dormer-windows 
so neighborly Havre gossii)s could air all the scandals 
of the growing port without the trouble of peopling 
their doorways. 

Courts, as late as the Napokonic days, traveled 
with all the paraphernalia, the adornments of fur- 
niture and tapestries, the linen, silver, and glass, 
as well as with all the essentials for elaborate culi- 
nary arrangements. For Havre such precautionary 

measures were more than ever imperative. 
3 21 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Francis, oven wlicn he liiinlcd, Branlomc tells iis, 
carried along chariots filled with the ladies of his 
court, with "fifty chariots filled with tents and tent- 
poles," six horses to each chariot. 

To commemorate fitly so great an event as a 
speedy conquest of England, a magnificent arbor 
was erected on the docks of Havre. Covered with 
feuillage — with roses and tree-branches — great tables 
were laid. 

What a scene the Normandy sun lit up! 

Here was a bit of Italy on the bleak Havre coast. 
There were the costly lace covers, the finely 
wrought gold and silver flagons, and the rare wines 
sparkling, as the sun-rays touched their topaz and 
rubies to deeper tones. 

Above the board, the lovely faces of women, their 
shoulders gleaming like new-dropped snow, framed 
in their wide Venetian-point collars, the gold and 
silver of their brocaded gowns matching the cour- 
tiers' gay silks and satins. Behind the guests the 
green walls of the arbor were lined with lackeys. 

How Havre must have stared and marveled! To 
behold such splendor di'ew all the countryfolk from 
miles about. 

What would not one give to have had that strange 
commingling of grandeur and squalor, of courtly 
magnificence and rugged homely folk reproduced 
for us! What a contrast to our dismally uniform, 
monotonous, colorless crowds! One tries to picture 
the gaily costumed comtiers, with their slashed 
satin doublets, their plumed hats, their laces, and 



HAVRE 

gold-worked swords; the dazzle of the gold-embroid- 
ered uniforms of admirals and generals; the scent 
of i>erfume outrivaling the roses; and, as the focal 
point of all this splendor, "the Superb" — the king! 
— then, in those earlier years of his reign, in all the 
vigor and majestic grace of "one who outshone 
them all." 

In the crowd assembled there were those more 
rugged faces, those more salient, expressive features 
of Havre's men and women, in the fishermen bronzed 
to deep tan, and in the peasants as ruddy as their 
wines, which we may see woven into the tapestries 
of the period. 

As though laughing in her silent depths, there 
was the sea. Such sport as she would have with 
these plumed admirals! Such curses and groans 
as would be flung at her across the shining, high- 
hung decks! 

The elements had determined indeed to make an 
end of the great enterprise before it was begun. 
The admiral's iron ship, the Philippe, took fire and 
burned before the very eyes of the king. But as 
tidal waves could not alter as determined a mind 
as was that of Francis I (for the first Havre he had 
endowed with extraordinary privileges was almost 
entirely swept away by the "male tide" Le Mas- 
caret, only to have a second town gi-ow, as by magic, 
out of the ruins) — as giant waves could not thwart 
the king's purpose, neither could fire. 

The fleet went out to sea, however, only to en- 
counter disaster after disaster. Forced to return to 

23 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Havre, the ships were speedily and mournfully dis- 
mantled. 

Francis, however, had not done with his naval 
follies. 



Who can affirm the nineteenth and the twentieth 
centiu'ies are the greatest among all other inventive 
ages? Behold Francis I anticipating, in minor de- 
gree, the size and many of the marvelous combina- 
tions of the floating palaces of our own day! 

Im Grande Frangoise, a monster sea-going craft for 
those days, her carrying capacity being two thousand 
tons, was to astonish other kingdoms than France. 
The marvel of all maritime wonders was that which 
the interior of the vessel contained. There was a 
forge, a windmill, a jeu de paiime, and a wooden 
house on her tillac. La Grande Frangoise also con- 
tained a chapel capable of seating three hundred 
people. 

The sea seemed to delight to sport, cruelly, with the 
king's maritime fancies. The monster was forced to 
await certain tides to launch it on its first voyage. 

The malicious sea saw in its own tidal wave — Le 
Mascaret — its chance to teach monarchs the limits of 
their power. The great fury of the mounting waters 
so successfully pounded, kicked, and tossed this early 
leviathan about that La Grande Frangoise was soon a 
mere ^\Teck. Out of its timber certain of the very 
houses you may see, fronting the Quai de la Barre, 
were built. 

24 



Havre 

VI 

Other kings and other faces of the rulers of France 
who came to the great port loom out of the historic 
mists. 

There came Henri II, that lover to whom the age 
in his divinity seemed rather an attraction than the 
usual most cruel of disenchantments. When Henri 
came to Havre he brought, this time, his wife, 
Catherine de Medici, of evil memory, with him; 
but as he was also careful to bring along his court, 
what court could exclude, in its longest journeys, 
or in its shortest — Diane, huntress, mistress, diplo- 
matist, statesman, lover of books — lover also of the 
English tub? 

There was Henri III, that prince a migyions, who 
brought his dogs over from Caen, in a basket tied 
about his neck; who added to his other crimes of 
omission and commission that of allowing his 
treacherous governor, the Due de Villars, to sell 
Havre to the English. 

Henri IV appeared in his turn, in his genial and 
heroic character of savior of cities and of French sous. 
He added a fresh feather to his white panache by refus- 
ing the fete Havre proffered him, in his customary 
homely, vigorous way; "Give the money to the poor. 
In that way they will make by it and so shall I." 

Lovely women's faces light up the duller pages 
of Havre's history. 

The beautiful Duchesse de Longueville knew the 
prison of Havre of her day better than she did its 

25 



IT THE SEINE TO THE RATTLEFIEEDS 

soa boaiilics. Mazai'in luul more conficlouco in this 
remote fortress than in the too easily approached 
Bastille; he had the Dnchesse's beloved brothers, the 
Princes de Conde and de Conti, as well as her hns- 
band, the Dne de I-ongneville, behind the strong 
bolls of the Normandy prison. 

After the bolts were drawn, and princes and the 
Dnc had made peace witli tlie conrt, it was the tnrn 
of the Duchesse to know how dnll prison life conld 
be. Forced to Hve for some years on her husband's 
estate in Normandy, Norman fields and lanes, even 
gardens and courts, were fountl as replllsi^'e as were 
Havre's gray fortress walls. Her ladies, seeking to 
divert her Grace, suggested riding, or walldng, or 
tennis, or tapestry- work, as chversions. 

"I do not care for innocent pleasures," was the 
revealing, contemptuous reply. Dull indeed must 
have seemed the provincial calm of Norman fields 
and forests to one who had played for the greatest 
prizes the kingdom had to offer, for one who had 
intrigued against Mazarin, and wlio liad treated 
with S]>ain on equal terms; for her whose wit and 
beauty had held La Rochefoucauld cajitive for years, 
and whose caprices had given him **copy" for some 
of Ills bitterest ei>igrams on love and constancy; 
for the proudest of the Fronde's beauties, whose 
wondrous eyes had "troubled" Turenne, for the 
clever diplomatist who had maneuvered to put her 
own brother on the French throne. 

Conld such a woman tind distraction in })ushing 

a needle into canvas? 

iG 




ANNE OF HOIJItltON, DIK'IIKSS Ol' LONCJUKVILLE 

From 11 piiinliiiK l)y Docrevize 



HAVRE 

The Pompadour, when she came to Havre with 
her "unamiisable" Louis XV, had a harder task. 
Although this later seductress was in the full flower 
of her youth and beauty, even her liveliest stories — 
and the Pompadour could tell a story as few women 
toll stories — neither her songs nor could her harpsi- 
chord enliven days which her royal lover felt to be 
among the deadliest for dullness he had ever spent. 

Havre must wait for genius to find in her quiet 
streets, and now crowded docks, the possibilities of 
greater activities. 

After the Peace of Amiens, Napoleon came to 
Havre with the woman who dimmed his star. Em- 
bellished and beautified as was Havre in this year 
1810, yet Marie Louise must have found the city 
as dull as did the Pompadour. 

This visit was shadowed by worse than dullness. 
"After six long years of patience, Havre still re- 
mained inactive; the English fleet still held the seas." 
The Emperor was no longer the same man as, when 
coming to Havre as Consul, he had captured the city 
by the all-discerning glance of his wonderful blue 
eyes; when docks and wharves were trodden with 
that firm, yet rapid step that carried him to the con- 
quest of the world. During this first short visit there 
had been time for a full, investigating survey; every 
quay must be visited; every ship's deck inspected. 
Modern Havre may be said to date from the dreams 
formed by the Napoleon of these consulate days, 
when he aspired to the conquest of a world-empire. 
The true conquest of England came just a century 

27 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTEEFIELDS 

later. In 1814 Napoleon's star sank never to rise 
again, below the mists of the horizon. 

Out of the mists of a glorious Normandy dawn, 
August 6, 101 k England eanie to elasp hands with 
Franet^ for the noble conquest of a world's liberation 
from mihtarism. 



CIIArTER II 



TWO PLEASURE TOWNS — TROUVILLE AND DEAUVILIvE 



At this entrance to France, at her very gates, she 
-^^ presents tliose contrasts, tliat amazing vari(^ty 
in life and movement wliicli are fonnd to })e among 
her most persistent, perdurable attractions. 

Less than an liour's trip across the broad Seine's 
moil I h and you buid at the Trouville pier. In a 
hlLle over a lialf-hour you are ferried over to Ilon- 
fleur — two towns as far ai)art, in point of attraction 
and from the picturesque point of view, as are a 
sunnner city of vilkis and tents and an ancient town 
still holding fast to its anti(iue charm. 

Shoidd you be Iiappily inspired to take one of the 
tidal boats that ply daily between Havre and 
Trouville you would find the long ridge of hills 
barring the horizon becoming more and more definite, 
distinct. 

Suddenly, as you n<\'U'ed the coast, the uprising 
greens would tund)le to be lost in an indistinct blur 
of houses, of villas, and of a monster casino. An 
elongated pier, stretching out into the sea like an 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIET.DS 

extended platform, would be, were it low tide, your 
landing-place. 

The whites, browns, yellows, and pinks of the 
variously painted villas, framed in their decorative 
greens of foliaged backgrounds, and to the right, 
the long lines, stretching along the amber beaches, 
of the little city of the tents, would leave no doubt 
in any one's mind that Trouville had set a certain 
fashion to all other towns and beaches born to 
bloom only under summer suns. From 184G up to 
1912 Trouville was undisputed queen of French 
summer pleasure towns. 

Those marvelous white sands that make of her 
beaches a footing as firm as asphalt, and whose 
breadth and length are even more generous in size 
than a Parisian boulevard, drew all the court of 
the Third Empire, as they have the even more mixed 
worlds of the Republic, to bring vexed spirits, 
strained nerves, and weakened bodies to the healing 
of nature's tonic forces. 

For all these worlds, what a prodigiously great 
stage was set here on the sands for the gaietieSj vani- 
ties, tragedies, and splendors in which to play out 
their brief roles! For effective backgrounds there 
are none to compare with the delicate blues of a 
French sky and the deeper sapphires of these north- 
ern seas. Trouville sat upon her topaz sands like 
a queen awaiting homage, assured of her all but un- 
paralleled place among beaches. 

The blue seas rolled to her amber feet; for her 
canopy there was the arching skies; and for her 

30 



TWO PLEASURE TOWNS 

c.irthly kingdom there lay behind this her gleaming 
realm — Normandy lanes, Normandy thatched farm- 
houses, Normandy orchards, and Napoleon's in- 
comparable roads. 

Thus endowed, Trouville was indeed a king's 
morsel. Yet it was an artist and no king who, 
chancing on her loveliness, made her a world-famous 
beauty. 

Boudin, one of the well-known artists of the 
middle of the nineteenth century, having wandered 
down along this lower Normandy coast of Calvados, 
struck by the grandeur of Trouville's attractions, 
painted a picture of her beaches. 

Trouville's fortune was made. 

Boudin's picture, exposed in the Salon of 1846, 
turned Parisian criticism to frantic acclamations of 
delighted surprise. 

A beach as vast, as beautiful as this — at Trou- 
ville — so near Paris — and unknown! It seemed in- 
credible ! 

The discovery of anything new or unknown in 
France, that is French, at any time is enough to 
turn all Parisian heads. To possess a part at least 
of this treasure-trove, therefore, became as con- 
tagious a mania as for courtiers to pay court to 
the latest beauty. 

Such leaders as the famous Princesse de Sagan, the 
Marquise de Barbentane, the Princesse de Metter- 
nich, followed by all the horde of foreigners who 
made the social laws of Eugenie's mixed court, 
bought lots, built villas, and made of the Trouville 

81 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

boaclios an extension of the Tuileries gaieties. The 
mad, reckless course of pk\isin"e set by tlie k\xders 
of that mad and reckk^ss worki coukl continue their 
wrecking process of the hxst Napokxinic era without 
a break in the continuous performance. 



II 

^Vilh the advent of the Kepubhe of France and 
the country's gradual reco\'ery from the disaster 
of Sedan, Trouville followed the upward rise of 
France's prosperity. Iler pre - eminence among 
French watering resorts renuiined undisputed up to 
the fatal moment of her tilting for first place with 
her quieter, more strictly exclusive neighbor, Deau- 
ville. 

Human passions can play as great havoc with a 
town or city as they do when kings play for empire. 

The two provincial nuniicipalities of Trouville 
and Deauville were each in turn devoured by a com- 
mon, and not uncommon rage, to outdo the other in 
presenting to France and to the world the bribe 
of possessing the finest casino. F^ach little city 
began to build on a scale of princely magnificence. 

Trouville cast the dice of her futiu'c stake for pre- 
eminence on the objective attraction of size; her 
casino was to be the largest in the world, the most 
elaborate, and the most comprehensive in fin-nishing 
unheard-of varieties of comfort and pleasure 
novelties. The easy road to ruin, from following 
the supposed-to-be-erratic curves of the "little 

Si 



TWO Pr.EASURE TOWNS 

horses" to the more tragic uncertainties of bac- 
carat, was to be made fatally seductive by every 
witchery of artistic device. The best artists from 
the Paris orchestras, great actors from La Com^die 
Frangaise, from L'Odeon, and singers whose voices 
were still unworn from the harshness of Russian 
and American winter climates were to turn Trou- 
ville into a Parisian musical and dramatic center. 

The casino at Deauville confessed as elaborate 
a program and also as a building a purer, less 
sensational taste. The architectural lines of the 
long, low, creamy-white building, as it rose up above 
its beautifully laid out gardens — across the road — 
running out to the dunes — recalled Trianon models. 
'J'he decorative Cupids adorning the casino cornice 
looking down on the scene of battle had an innocent 
air of playing a winning game. 

It was the Cupids, in the end, who won out. 

Wlien the touchstone of the season opened for the 
final success or failure of the two great casinos, the 
two worlds of the habitues of the two beaches were 
as conjectural as to the ultimate decision in favor 
of one or the other — for one or the other must in- 
evitably take second place — as were the trembling 
capitalists whose money was on the venture. 

"Our husbands will go over to Trouville to follow 
the little ladies and gamble at their will, and we 
shall be left to empty rooms at our Deauville casino," 
a Parisian beauty ruefully sighed. 

Marital Deauville decided differently. And Deau- 

ville's pre-eminence was assured. 

33 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Troiiville had lost. Her great gamble had resulted 
ill failure. She must take second place. Behold 
her now, still crowded in the gay sunnner months; 
her little city of tents on her great beaches is still 
set daily for a world as various, as mixed, as any, 
only it is no longer the world, as her shops also pro- 
claim a decline in values and her lodgings in rentals. 

Trouville had sunk to the level of the semi-respect- 
able beaches where a Parisian may take liis wife 
and family — and even leave them — with no great 
fciu- of domestic or financial bankruptcy. 

It is not, however, with this extension of Parisian 
boulevards with which we have to <.lo. For the 
setting of a certain tragic scene we nnist make our 
way to Deauville, a short mile away, across the 
river Touques and its bridge — to the west. 

Before Deauville was the Deauville of the beau 
mondc it was a fishing village. Thatched houses, 
fishing-nets, men in blue jerseys may still be seen 
on the low hill beyond the weedy race-course, beyond 
the sand-dunes, the scarce pines, and the sandy 
plains — plains that since those early days have been 
made literally to blossom into a millionaire's para- 
dise of roses. 

The little watering-place owed its existence to the 
speculative talent of the clever Due de INIorny, 
Napoleon Ill's counselor, connnonly supposed to 
be his natm-al half-brother. 

The Due knew his world well. 

The Trouville beaches,he believed, would fail to 
draw the truly great, the securely intrenched aris- 

34 



TWO PLEASURE TOWNS 

tocratic world of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, tlit 
world Napoleon III had never succeeded in luring 
to the Tuileries. Alluring, compellingly attractive 
as were these new Normandy beaches, these social 
frundeurs, who had never forgotten the Terror 
nor the Revolution, nor their own exile or that of 
their parents, nor the advent of the two "usurpers" — 
Napoleon I and III — felt they would find the Trou- 
ville air vitiated by being breathed by the "foreign- 
ers," by the social climbers, and by the adventurers 
who were crowding Trouville. 

A more exclusive center must be found for this 
remnant of a world that had survived the Bourbon 
dynasties. 

The Due de Morny saw his chance, and took it. 
He would have been in his element in the later 
nineteenth-century speculative, trust-continuation 
era. 

Across the river Touques there lay the sand- 
dunes of Deauville. The purifying qualities of that 
innocent river would be found as protective an ele- 
ment against the contaminating influences of this 
Napoleonic world as the Seine had proved in sepa- 
rating the sacred Faubourg Saint-Germain itself from 
disintegrating Tuileries influences. 

The Due and his company bought up Deauville 
sand-dunes, and the rise of villa plots on the sand- 
dunes soon justified de Morny 's gambling, literally, 
in futures. 

The exclusive world of the creme de la creme which, 
like a nest of Chinese boxes, becomes smaller and 

35 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

smaller as one approaches the central unit, man- 
aged, for several decades, to restrict Deauville life 
to one fashioned on the most accepted type of aris- 
tocratic traditions. This life had much of the 
charm, of that delicate and exquisite intimacy, of 
the distinction that even masked vice with a veil 
of decency such as characterized the life of the Lor- 
raine court held under King Stanislas at Luneville. 
In such an atmosphere gaiety soon recaptured its 
lost youth of enjoyment. Lender Normandy sides, 
before the blue Normandy seas, love and pleasure 
took up the lyre and played their music of enchant- 
ment. No one counted the vows lisped in such a 
scene de decors. Even scandals were breathed low, 
since it had all happened in the family. 

It was to such a world of players with life and 
destiny that the appalling echoes came of the tragedy 
of Sedan in the lovely September daj^s of 1870. Down 
from Paris there followed, all too swift, news of the 
terrifying changes taking place in the court and 
government. The air was rife with revolution. 

The cries that were ringing in the ears of the Em- 
press Eugenie, '' Aux Tidleries!" "Aux Tuileriesr' 
and "A bas VEiwpirer ''Vive la Reimhlique!'" were 
carried, as it were, on the wings of the air to strike 
white terror into the heart, and to test the soul of 
the aristocrats, many of whose fathers and mothers 
had heard the last of just such seditious cries only 
when they had laid their heads beneath the knife 
of the guillotine. 

The pretty, striped tents could now be folded up; 

36 



TWO PLEASURE TOWNS 

the musicians could wrap violins and drums and 
'cellos in their casings; the steps of the dancers would 
glide no more, for many a day, over satiny floors; 
and for many a long day France would no longer 
beat out the rhythmic measure of pleasure to a 
startled and horrified world. 

There was the roll of ominous thunder, the crackle 
of lightning strokes in the light, summer air. 

''Vive la Francer ''Vive la Rejpuhliquer "A has 
r Empire!'' Such were the cries that brought con- 
sternation, anguish, and terror to every light- 
hearted pleasure-lover. Well they might, for with 
the defeat of the French army at Sedan, with the 
collapse of the second Napoleonic reign, a new world 
was to be born. Ermine mantles, royal crowns, and 
imperial splendor were to be the dust and debris of 
an inglorious past. The people and their leaders 
were forging new governments, and with a rapidity 
that seemed to be of magical power. 



CIIArTER III 



THE FLiailT OF AN EMPllESS 



^ 1^1 IK scouos williin llic Pnlacv of llio Tiiilorios wore 
-*■ rivaling, in Iragic inlcnsily and I'aU^liil issnos, 
iliosc iliat wore clumging, wilh Iho swil'lncss of a 
magic ha(}ucth\ a inouiirchial form of government 
inlo the Re})nblic. 

Tlie reception of Napoleon Ill's now historic tele- 
gram liad heen tlie opening scene in I lie downfall of 
the Empress Kngenie's reign as l\egent; it was a 
scene wliich was to be played ont to its tragic finish. 

The anny is l»o;ilon and captuivd; nol. liaviufj; siu'crrdod in 
brinfj; kilK'd, in the niittsl of my stildiers, I was forrod lo give 
niysi'lf n|) as a i>risi>nor, in ordir lo savr llu> army. 

Nai'olkon. 

The Empress, as llegent, was lo have this falal 
news conveyed to her by her INIinister of the In- 
terior, Monsienr Cluxrean, This gentleman was 
so overwhelmed by the awfnl disaster which had 
overtaken Erance, the army, and the Empire he 
fonntl himself nnable lo ntler a word, cither of com- 
ment or of consolation, to the stricken Eniprcss. 

us 



TUK FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

^ugc'iiie, \vli() li.id risen Lo receive her MiriisLer, 
on reading Llie despulcli, stiuk into a cliair, giving 
way to Iier despair; soon, however, cheeking her 
sobs, she rallied her courage and, fronting tlie more 
immediate dangers of the fateful hour, summoned 
a meeting of jier Council. 

This was to })e tlie beginning of a long and tumult- 
uous consultation, of hurried and agitated meetings 
and decisions of Ministers — of all that feeble rallying 
of waning forces to meet irresistible powers that were 
sweeping all things before it. 

The one hope of the Empress was to save the crown. 
She made a last imi)assioned a[)peal to lier Coimcil; 
she i)leaded tliat *'to save France from the clutches 
of Bismarck" the country must rally to the sui)port 
of the Emperor — the dynasty. But what is a Re- 
gency to effect who liad neither generals nor l)ayo- 
nets nor personal i>opularity to uphold its power? 
The tidal wave of new forces, new life, and new 
ideals was carrying the people and their leaders to 
those insurrectional intensities that sweep away 
governments as easily as they (;ry new cries or sliout 
" />a Marseillaise! ' ' 

All the efforts of friends and Ministers were vain. 

There was the famous abortive interview of Pros- 
per Merimee with Thiers. The latter, having sur- 
vived the shipwreck of one dynasty, had no taste for 
sinking ships. 

'J'here was the comico-tragic reply of General 
Trochu, governor of Paris, to his Empress's impera- 
tive command to come at once to the Tuileries. 

89 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

*'I am tired; I haven't dined; I will go this evening, 
after dinner, to see her Majesty." 

This was the man who had sworn that very morn- 
ing to protect liis sovereign; who had vowed that 
those who attacked her would have to pass over 
his dead body; who, a few hours after this grandilo- 
quent gesture, allowed the i)oi)ulaee to enter the 
Tuileries and the Corps Legislatif , and who had him- 
self proclaimed, with prudential caution, once the 
Republic was announced as tin fait accompli, Presi- 
dent of the Government of National Defense. 

Paris itself was in a ferment of excitement and of 
tumult; the city was in that state of exalted frenzy 
when it realizes constraining forces are removed 
and brute instincts can be given rein. A crowd, 
headed by a buffoon, had forced its way into the 
Cor])s Legislatif and had settled itself comfortably 
in the seats of Deputies and Senators. 

Other crowds had more definite ideas of material 
gain to be won out of this revolutionary movement. 
Pillage and plunder sang loud in the ears of the 
swarms that were hurrying to that gilded arsenal 
of imperial booty — the Tuileries Palace. 

Meanwhile, the graver minds, the men who had 
been plmniing, working, suffering for long years, 
for France's liberation from despotism, were, for- 
tunately for France, not only dreamers, thinkers, 
intellectuals, but men of action and resource. 

With an amazing quickness of vision these revo- 
lutionary leaders seized what we now term the 
psychological moment. Jules Ferry, Jules Fabre, 

40 



THE FLIGHT OF AX EMPRESS 

Gambetta, Rochefort, Keratry, and other Deputies 
had met together at the Palais Bourbon immedi- 
ately after the populace had invaded the Corps 
Legislatif. They felt there was not a moment to 
lose. These gentlemen hastened to the Hotel de 
Ville — the beautiful civic building which the Com- 
mune was to burn only a few months later. From 
one of the balconies the new Republic was pro- 
claimed; every tongue in Paris shouted the birth 
of France's freedom to the listening world. 



II 

As soon as the political adherents of the Napo- 
leonic dynasty learned of the proclamation of the 
Republic, a committee of Deputies of the Corps 
Legislatif hastened to the Tuileries. Louder than 
the clamorous-tongued fears and tremors that were 
ringing in these royalists' ears were the terrifying 
shouts to be heard outside of the palace: 

''A has VEmpirer "A has Napoleonr ''Vive la 
Republique!'' 

To emphasize the cries there were the premonitory 
tearing do\\Ti of railings, of tree-branches, of the flux 
and reflux of a crowd mad with the drinking of the 
new heady wine of liberty, now pouring its waves 
against barred resistance, and now swayed by the 
eloquence of a street orator — that cheap form of a 
bid for momentary power to which every revolution 
gives quick birth. 

The Deputies, meanwhile, were pleading with 

41 



UP THE Si:iNK 'lO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Eugenie. After giving full details of the reeent 
momentous charges, they bent all their energies to 
force her to resign as Regent. 

The Emi)ress would not have been Empress, 
having tasted the intoxicating cup of iminn-ial sway, 
and she certainly would not have been a woman, had 
she not clung to some fragment of ]>ower. But those 
ilread cries without, that swelled ui)on the air like a 
terrifying iiropheey of coming horrors — '\1 /'(/.v/" '*.! 
has!'' — these shouts lent, at last, convincing strength 
to the Deputies' clinching arguments. Were the 
sovereigns but to resign, the powers both of the new 
government and of the Corps Legislatif would be 
greatly strengthened and "France would be saved." 

These arguments linally prevailed. In accepting 
her doom anil that of the Napoleonic dynasty, 
F^ngenie, it nnist be ailmitted, even by her detractors 
who can see no virtues and only frailties and follies 
of vanity in her — F^ugenie bore herself with befitting 
dignity in this critical moment. 

"You wish it." she said. "Such is not my opinion. 
But I put behind me all personal matters. If my 
Ministers agree with you concerning the measures 
you proj>ose, the obstacle to their fulfilment will 
not come from me. ..." 

A few moments l^efore she had said, in a broken 
voice: "Yes, you have seen me the crowne<l sover- 
eign on fete-days. Hereafter nothing can soften the 
poignant remembrance of the present hour. I shall 
weai' on my heart, eternally, all the sorrows of 
France — tons les denils de la France." 

i-2 



TIIIC FLIGHT OF AN EMP11I<:SS 

Somewhat theatrical, one must admit, are sucli 
fine phrases; such they seem to us who, in our gen- 
eration, speak a h'ss inflaled lan^iui/^c. But Ro- 
manticism was in tlie air, Victor Hugo was the king 
of poets and dramatists, and Eugenie was herself 
more or less accused of knowing and ])ractising the 
arts that impose on those the otlier side of tlie foot- 
liglits. 

While Senators, Deputies, Councils, and Cabinets 
were cousulliug and <l('lil)(>jatiiig, tiu; peojile who 
govern Paris iji siic:Ji i-evohitiouary times were acting. 
The sap of insul)ordination had risen rapidly. And 
the ways of the "peoj)le" an; strikingly similar. 
For revolutions ;i,ll hear a certain family resemblance, 
since revolt means but one thing — revolt against 
authority. 

The trumpet-calls of *'Aux I'mleries!'* ^'^ Aux 
Tuileriefi!" had not fail<;d of their clamorous effect. 
The i)opulac(!, surging about the inclosed private 
gardens of the Tuileries, attempted to force the 
gates. There were a few courageous gentlemen 
among the crowd, whose quick wits and whose 
sang-froid prevented are petition of the scenes of 1830. 

Victorien Sardou (then a young man, the great 
playwriglit-to-be), General Meliinet, and the famous 
Fer<linand de Lesseps, who was already beloved in 
Paris, confronted the heated crowd. 'J'lie old Gen- 
eral M<'llinet's d<'ep saber-cut across his face, 
received in the Crimean War, also made its sen- 
sational ai)])eal to the masses crying, "A baa 

VEm/pircf' 

4f} 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Pointing to the palace flagpole from whicli there 
floated no longer the imperial flag, the general 
cried : 

*'You see, there is no longer the flag. The Em- 
press is gone." 

Joyous and wild were the shouts that followed the 
announcement, to be succeeded by the cries, " T7/r 
la Ixi'publiqui'!'' 

A message .having been sent to announce to 
Eugenie that the insurgents were attemj)ting to 
force the gates of the garden of the Tuileries, those 
who were still about her INFajesty urged her to quit 
the palace while there was still a chance of escaping. 
Any I lung, everything nuist be tried rather than 
fall into the hands of the popidace. That would 
mean — might mean — Alas! what horrors had not 
their own revolution — that "harvest of long cen- 
turies" taught crowned heads whose crowns were 
tottering. 

The Empress still showed no terror. Yet she knew 
well her history. Had she not made a cult of col- 
lecting bibelots, jewels, furniture, miniatures, and 
l)ortraits of her sorrowful, of her far more lud'ortimate 
predecessor, INIarie Antoinette.'^ 

AVhile the air of Paris about her ears was vil>rant 
with mad cries and shouts, its Emi)ress — who had 
been fighting what it nuist be conceded was a gal- 
lant fight for her dynasty, who, whatever her sins 
of frivolity, of an undue lust for power, of unwise 
and ignorant counsels, and use of all possible per- 
sonal influence to urge Napoleon to nuike tliis dis- 

44 



THE FLKillT OV AN EMPRESS 

astrous war — Eugenie's wanting in personal courage 
cannot be laid to her charge. 

To those wlio surronnded lier in that last hour, all 
of whom were urging iiniiiediale flight, she rej)eat- 
edly assured these her all-too-few true friends: "I 
am not afraid. "Why should I go?" 

Again, she answered tiie pleas of the more im- 
j)orlunate, "It is here I was i)laced hy the Emperor, 
and here I shall remain. ..." 

The cries of ''Aux Tnilericsr '' Aux Tuilericsr 
were now rolling in thunderous tones from the already 
invaded gar(h>ns. 

]*rince Metternich, the Austrian Ambassador, and 
Mo'nsieur Nigra, the Italian Ambassador, presently 
hurried into the palace, demanding immediate audi- 
ence. 

,*'The populace is mistress of the Palais Bourbon 
— is preparing to attack the Tuileries. The Emj)ress 
nuist be made to understand that all resistance is 
useless. She remains here at the risk of her life. 
We come to offer her oiu" protection." 

It required the further assurance of Monsieur 
Pietri, Prefet de Police, that in ten or fifteen minutes 
**it is im])ossible to say what she might be al)le to 
do, what crime she might connnit were she to 
remain." 

Convinced at last she was endangering the lives 
of the few friends and courtiers who had remained 
faithful to this last hour of her reign as Emi)ress, 
Eugenie consented to take her flight. Iler adieus 
to those about her were so prolonged that the Italian 



VV THE SEINK TO THE liATTLEFIELDS 

Ambassador was forced to cry, imploringly, "You 
must hasten — in a few moments flight will be im- 
])ossibIe!" And ho hiinsolf hurriedly handed her her 
hat and veil. 

Followed by l\\c two Ambassadors, by certain 
ofHeers and heads of the Emperor's Cabinet, and by 
INIadanie Ee Breton, herreatler and (Ia))iC(Jcconipaguir, 
the i)arly sli])ped through a ])rivale door of tlie Em- 
])ress's a]>artnuMils. In ouv of tliese rooms Eugenie 
stop]>ed short, (dancing around tlie well-known 
souvenirs, the i>ielures, baskels, bibelots, with whieh 
the cozy, homehke room Nvas crowded, she cried, 
as though to herself, *'Is it really Tor the lasl time?'' 

As this now uncrowned sovereign ])ursued her 
Hight in her once owned palace, now rel racing her 
steps, the tloor leading to tlie court of the palace 
having been found too dangerous for exit, the crowds 
surging about the Elace du Carrousel, crying, "'A 
inorfT'' '\1 ///or//"; now regaining the very ap;u*t- 
nients the }>arty had quilled in such haste; next, 
she anil her friends taking their way through the 
inlerminal>le series of rooms leading to the galleries 
of tJie Louvre, only to find the door opening into the 
galleries securely locked; living through the agi- 
tated, trenndous excitement of no answer save dund> 
silence to re]>eateil knocks; quivering to the sudden, 
stunuinl rt^ali/.alion that their sole means of eseape 
was thus eut otV; liftetl to sudden sense of rai>turous 
relief by the all but miraculous appearance of the 
Treasurer of tlie Euq^cror, with the k(\v of the open 

door to safely before them in his pocket; then the 

Hi 



Tino i'ij(;irr of an em press 

hurried rusJi ucross ilie Salon (Jarro, llic J*aviIlon 
(l'Ai)olIon, down to the Salles des Antiquitos Grccques 
ot K{^'yi)licnn('s; the swill glance; sliot at tlu; seated 
figures of those lon^ dead and i^onc. E^yf)tian kind's 
and (|ueens, as though ]>assiug in review Uiose other 
dynasties whose reigns also had ended in (hist and 
ashes — and — at last —at last -with (lie furtive ofx'ti- 
ing of tlie last door, after a parli<;ularly turbulent 
erowd has passed tluj Plaee Saint-Germain I'Auxer- 
rois, there came tlie blessed freshness of tin; open 
air — the sudden husli of a great quicit after llie <lying 
away of the fearsome, voeiferous shouls. 

Was it indeed freedom — was it safety — yet? 



Ill 

The Empress's flight, in reality, Iiad but begim. 

To the party in flight, on(;(^ away from tlie 'J'uih;- 
ries a])artments, the palaec; walls }iad seemed to 
ofiVr some shadow of security. Once outside the 
])alac-e, faeiug the open street, and every instant was 
frauglit wilh danger. 

iMigenie's features were as well known as must Ix; 
any fares constantly before a pul)lic as sensibh; to 
bean I y an<l to personal charm as are Parisians. 
The Empress's daily drives in the ]5ois, her rcjx'ated 
appearances at all seasons of the year, in an open 
landau, in the imj)erial Iribunals of the race- 
courses, at operas and theaters, at fetes, as well as 
the inminierable pholographs repnxhicing her in 

every possible pose and in every costume, liad 

47 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

familiarized Eugenie's classical style of Spanish 
beauty to every gamin of the gutter as to every 
boulevardier. 

The much-dreaded danger of immediate recogni- 
tion, therefore, was not long in announcing its fate- 
ful possibilities, 

''Voild rimpcmiricer ("There's the Empress!") 
cried a street boy, gazing hard at the pale but clas- 
sically perfect face beneath the derby hat. 

"What is that you say?" with astonishingly quick 
presence of mind, asked Monsieur Nigra. And taking 
the lad aside, he managed to keep him interested 
while Prince Metternich hurried the two ladies — the 
Empress and Madame Le Breton — into the shabby 
cab awaiting them. 

This public vehicle, it had been decided, was far 
safer for traversing the streets filled with excited 
crowds and insurgents than would be the Prince 
Imperial's private coupe, with all its liveries and the 
Prince's crown, awaiting orders below the Prince 
Imperial's apartments. 

The group which had started with the Empress 
from the palace apartments had now been consid- 
erably reduced in numbers. 

A second parting scene took place, in which tears 
and touching farewells had been exchanged between 
the fleeing Empress and this little band of faithful 
courtiers. For the Empress to have appeared in 
the open streets witli as numerous a company as the 
groups that had followed her was deemed unsafe. 

Once seated in the cab, the two ladies shrank into 

48 




EMPRESS EUGlilNTE 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

the depths of the little vehicle, after the two Am- 
bassadors had made their adieus. 

The Empress Eugenie, with her companion, now 
began thi'ough the streets of Paris their melancholy 
search for their safest hiding-place. Neither the 
Prince de Metternich nor Monsieur Nigra seemed 
to have considered it a part of their duties at least to 
have further counseled the Empress as to her im- 
mediate destination. The two ladies, thus left 
alone in broad daylight, exposed to any chance en- 
counter which might easily bring about the worst 
of fates, having hastily given orders to their driver 
to take them to a certain number in the Boulevard 
Haussmann — the residence of the State Counselor — 
one of them was living tlirough one of the most 
extraordinary experiences a dethroned monarch ever 
encountered. 

The cabby had quite naturally driven his fare 
straight into the broad thoroughfare of the rue de 
Rivoli. On and on, past the fagades facing the 
famous street, past the palaces — hers never to be 
again — of the Louvre and the Tuileries; past the 
jircades; and also — most heart-sickening of all — past 
the still brilliantly flowered private gardens of the 
Prince Imperial, where he had been trundled as a 
baby, where his first infant steps had been taken, 
where as a boy and lad he had romped and played — 
the heedless cab-driver, like fate itself, as ruthless 
and seemingly as unconsciously cruel, had driven 
the Empress past these palaces and gardens as 
though to impose upon her a final review of all the 

19 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIRLDS 

beauty, ilie tciulcr, fiimiliar scenes, and also of all 
the splendor she must leave behind forever. 

No drop of the bitter cuj) of defeat, of loss, of 
coming expatriation was to be spared Eugenie. 

The Republic had come! 

The news of the proclamation that the hated 
Third Empire had collapsed like a pack of cards; 
that the Empress had fled; that the Tuileries, as 
had the Corps Legislatif, had been entered by the 
"peoi)le" — but where, so admirably guarded did the 
intending pillagers find the palace and all its rooms 
and treasures, no booty nor desecration could be 
indulged in — this glorious, unbelievably astounding 
news had flown over every quarter of Paris. No 
more hateful si>ying; no more autocratic discii)line 
and policed existences; no more wasteful enriching of 
useless monarchs and courtiers; no more enslaving 
of a great people — the new Republic was just born 
and its gifted godfathers were guaranty of its 
longevity. 

The mounting of the tidal wave of new forces, 
new life, new ideals was carrying the packed crowds 
that filled the streets to demonstrate their joy and 
sense of deliverance from hated despotism in the 
exuberant, intensive French way. Men and women 
could be seen embracing one another; old and young 
wept as they shouted the new watchwords of ''Lib- 
erty, Equality, and Fraternity." Already, in these 
few brief hours, the brute instinct to demolish, to 
plunder, to kill had been transformed bj'^ joy into 
more human manifestations of delight. All Paris 

50 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

was literally en fete; the Parisian soul was supplying 
the lighting. 

Thus, with ears ringing with the exultant shouts 
of a happy people, with the long-suppressed soaring 
notes of the "Marseillaise" filling the air, through 
street scenes in which dances and embraces played 
themselves out before all the world, the sad-eyed 
Empress and her sole lady companion made their 
way. 

It was reserved for Eugenie alone among the four 
preceding monarchs who had attempted or who 
had achieved their flight to look forth upon a Re- 
public born from the death-throes of despotism. 

Arrived at their destination, the ladies dismissed 
their cab — an imprudent proceeding, as they were 
soon to discover. After mounting the three or four 
flights leading to the Counselor's apartment, it was 
only to face fresh disaster. No one responded to 
their persistent ringing. Realizing at last her state 
of fatigue, induced by several sleepless nights, and 
from the long nervous tension of these past terrible 
days of suspense, of anguish, of the rallying of all 
her forces to fight against the relentless powers ar- 
raigned against her, the exhausted Empress sat her- 
self down on one of the stairs opposite the closed 
door. 

Just a year before this fatal date for the Napo- 
leonic dynasty, in 18G9, this seated figure, awaiting 
response to an unanswered bell, awaiting the ad- 
vent of the master of this high-perched, modest 
bourgeois apartment, as her possible savior, had been 

51 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

queen of the most gorgeous of all Oriental fetes and 
festivals.^ 

The Sultan of Turkey, Abdul Ilamid, fitly to 
receive the Empress of the French come to Con- 
stantinople on her way to open the Suez Canal, 
had transformed the most beautiful of modern pal- 
aces on the Bosporus (the Palace of Beylerbey) 
into a French palace. Eugenie arrived to find the 
very hangings of the rooms in the Tuileries had been 
copied. From this most festal of modern Oriental 
palaces, its bright marbles set so close to the water's 
edge they seemed a part of the bright surface; out 
from walls, and kiosks, whose latticed windows were 
goldened; out from palace chambers redolent of 
perfume; out from gardens heavy with the scent 
of roses, clematis, and narcissi — the Empress went 
forth to fetes and scenes that must have seemed 
rather the phantasmagoria of a poet's dream than 
reality. 

From the moment of her reception in the Golden 
Horn, as she made her way up through the bhie- 
liued Bosporus to this enclumted palace, the Em- 
press of the French lived through days and nights 
of which the splendors of this reception were but the 
prelude. 

As Eugenie appeared, seated alone on the raised 
dais of her caique — one specially built for her of 
polished cedar, with its gold and silver ornaments, 
its adornments of gorgeous Eastern silks and satins — 
in all the splendor of her beauty, enhanced by her 

* In the Palaces of the Sultan, 1903, Anna Bowman Dodd. 



THE FLIGHT OP AN EMPRESS 

Parisian full-dress costume, wearing her diadem of 
jewels as proudly as though born to such royal dis- 
tinction, the Sultan's imperial caique shot forth 
from Dolma Bagchtec to meet her. 

As the cortege now floated onward, they found 
the Bosporus crowded with every variety of ships, 
steamers, and yachts. In thousands of caiques, the 
dark Oriental eyes of hundreds of Turkish women, 
clad in all the Eastern glory of brilliant-hued gar- 
ments, looked out above their gauze yashmaks on 
the unveiled Empress, with eyes full of wonder, on 
a scene as novel and dreamlike to them as it was to 
their European guest. 

The shouts of welcome from the throngs lining the 
shores were only louder than the marine bands' 
festal music rising from the decks of the various 
ships assembled. Fetes, festivals, banquets, crowded 
the days and nights of this unique and wonder- 
yielding visit. 

And a year — less than a year — later the central 
figure of that resplendent scene was resting on the 
stairway of a modest French apartment, her hus- 
band a prisoner, the Empire a lost cause, the where- 
abouts of her son, the Prince Imperial, an eating 
anxiety, and she herself anxiously questioning where 
next to turn for succor, for safety. 

The Counselor and his household failing to appear, 
the weary Empress and her companion conferred 
where next to seek an entrance into the household 
of trusty friends. Mr. Washburn, the American 
Minister, was thought of; but his diplomatic duties 

6 53 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

mfglit prevent, it was believed, his rendering the 
necessary aid. The American name suggested an- 
other, that of Doctor Evans, an old friend, the oldest 
perhai)s in France, since it was the accident of a 
fortunate dental appointment at Doctor Evans' 
office that chance had played its happy trick and 
made, eventually, of Mademoiselle de Montijo, the 
lovely Spanish girl, an Emj^rcss.^ 

The doors of the famous American dentist, in 
his sumptuous apartment close to the Arc de I'Etoile, 
were opened, and the doctor shortly appeared. 
Amazed, astounded, he was to find in "the two 
lady visitors," announced by his valet de chambre, 
the Empress and Madame Le Breton. 

rv 

In the painfully sad explanations the Empress 
gave her friend of her sorrowful plight — "You see 
I am no longer happy; the bad days have come, and 
I am abandoned," she had cried, after going into 
detailed narration of all that had happened since 

^ Mademoiselle de Montijo, Comtcsse de Tiba, was for some time a 
patient of Doctor Evans. At that time she lived, together with her 
mother and sister, at No. 12, Place Vendome. A friend of Napoleon 
Ill's, then Prince President, being pressed for time, on the occasion 
of his awaiting his turn in the doctor's office, was agreeably surprised 
by the offer of a surpassingly beautiful young girl, seated beside him, 
to give him her place. On mquiring of the doctor who was the gracious 
beauty, and on learning her name, he narrated the incident to the Prince 
President. On hearing her charms of face and manner thus extolled. 
Napoleon III expressed a desire to have the mother and her daughter 
presented. A short time after their names appeared regularly on the 
lists of those invited to the Palais de I'Elysce. 

54 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

the news of Sedan and tlie Emperor's telegi-am — 
the doctor, having assured Eugenie she could count 
absolutely on him for all possible help and succor, 
asked her Majesty: 

"Have you formed any plans, have you any 
wishes for any particular project, for the future?" 

The Empress immediately confessed her longing 
to go as quickly as possible to England. There she 
hoped that both the Emperor and the Prince Im- 
perial would speedily join her. 

Doctor Evans, approving of the plan, announced 
he would make immediate preparations for leaving 
Paris. 

The short September twilight having settled into 
early night, the doctor insisted on his guests taking 
both rest and nourishment. Though the Empress 
at first rebelled, desiring to leave Paris at once, she 
finally acquiesced. Her presence in the house was 
kept a profound secret, even from the servants, the 
valet who had led them in presuming the two ladies 
long since had departed. 

While the Empress and her friend were seeking 
what proved to be vain efforts to woo sleep. Doctor 
Evans and his assistant. Doctor Crane, spent the 
night in planning the escape from Paris into the open 
country. 

Deauville, it was decided, w^as to be the objective 
point. Mrs. Evans was passing the month at the 
Hotel de Paris at the latter resort. No sojourn would 
offer better security than the suite of rooms occupied 
by the doctor's wife. Deauville was a port. A 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

yacht, sailing-boat, or steam-launch could be counted 
upon for til em to take passage across the Channel. 

At early dawn, about half i)ast five, on the fol- 
lowing morning, the Empress in her blaek cash- 
mere gown, a water-proof for a mantle, white collar, 
two handkerchiefs — which she had to wash fre- 
quently during the next few days — her low derby 
hat and veil, with neither traveling-bag nor other 
covering than her mackintosh, began her odyssey. 

With that practical foresight so eminently Amer- 
ican, the two doctors had foreseen several of ilie 
more serious dangers they might have to face. Cer- 
tain pass})orts the Empress had brought with her 
had been carefully examined; the one chosen was 

a permit to allow a certain Doctor C to take a 

patient to England. Signed by the Prefet de Police 
of Paris, it would serve admirably the purpose. 

Doctor Crane would personate the Doctor C , 

the Empress the patient; Doctor Evans was to figure 
as the hitter's brother, and INIadame Le Breton as 
her nurse. The passport, being made out for passage 
to England, nuide the voyage thither doubly safe. 



The sun was not yet risen, Doctor Evans states 
in his excellent and detailed narrative of this tragic 
depart lU'c, when the i)arty started. Remembering 
that it had been Louis XVLs imprudeul head — 
thrust through the open window at Varennes, on 
the attempted flight of the king and Marie Antoi- 

50 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

nette, and the recognition of the monarch's pulpy 
features and bulky frame, to which the .indiscreet 
order, sliouted aloud, "to go to Varennes," were the 
convincing proofs that had brought about the arrest 
of tlie king and queen, their imprisonment, and 
eventually their death on the scaffold. Doctor Evans 
had placed the Empress on the left of the carriage, 
thus screening her as much as possible from the sen- 
tinels posted at the city's gates. 

On entering the vehicle, into the depths of which 
P^ugenie sank, she began playing her role of fatigued 
invalid. 

Through the foggy thickness of the September 
dawn the carriage rolled past Paris, at its early 
matutinal toilet. The street-scavengers were clean- 
ing the streets; little by little day broke, warm, 
still, rosy. Shopkeepers were soon opening shut- 
ters; men .and women were hurrying to their toil 
cityward, and belated market- wagons were plod- 
ding toward their distant stalls. Paris proved her- 
self, on this day after an Em,pire had been over- 
turned, after Sedan, after the most disastrous news 
that had come to France since Waterloo, and after 
the stormy scenes which had culminated in the 
cjuick birth of a Re])ublic, with full knowledge the 
Germans were marching on the city — Paris yet 
proved herself the industrious, orderly, 50ws-winning 
city that can go through a debauch of revolution 
on any day and night, and wake up sober the next 
morning. 

The extraordinary Iranfjuillily of the country- 

67 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

side — even of that part of the country lying along 
the outer boulevards and the Seine banks — as the 
party made their way out from Paris to Rueil, to 
La Malmaison and to Saint-Germain, this was one 
of the surprises that were noted by this fleeing party 
of four. This amazing quiet, tliis sootliing hush of 
voices, were the best of restoratives to nerves that 
hatl been on the rack for long days and nights. 
It seemed impossible to credit the turmoil, the pas- 
sionate scenes of anger and violence of the day be- 
fore — of the long night. Before the smiling face of 
this charming landscape, following the greens of 
meadows and the peace of the silently flowing Seine, 
how believe in the recording memories of those mad, 
swaying, bloodthirsty crowds which, once the Re- 
public proclaimed, were turned into the joyous, sing- 
ing, dancing groups that made all Paris seem en fete? 

Other memories, the doctor tells us, were also 
evoked, as they passed on a road crowded with his- 
toric souvenirs. Only twenty years ago and at 
Neuilly there had stood a chateau in which were passed 
the "happiest days of my life," records the Prince de 
Joinville, third son of Louis Philippe. This royal 
chateau had been pillaged, burnt, and all but de- 
stroyed by the easily roused to furious dealings of 
the French populace — as weary in 1848 of their 
constitutional king, Louis Phili])j)e, as they had 
been of the immortal Napoleon I. 

Soon the carriage-wheels were rattling along tlie 
cobble-paved streets of Rueil, in whose plain- 
visaged church are the tombs of tlie Empress 

58 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

Josephine and Hortense. Farther on lay the park 
of La Mahnaison. With every breath of the now 
rising morning breeze there must have swept before 
these four travelers the vivid historic splendors and 
tragedies of which La Malmaison had been the 
center: Josephine, as the youthful pensionnaire at 
her near-by school, eyeing the chateau, even as a girl, 
with envious eyes; later, its proud and lavishly ex- 
travagant mistress, as the wife of Europe's hero, the 
Consul Bonaparte. And for all the "great prop- 
erty" of that later accumulated splendor and glory, 
of a story of magnificent adventure outrivaling all 
imagined stories — behold the end — in the two all- 
but-forgotten graves in the quiet little Rueil church, 
while the greatest man since Csesar had died a pris- 
oner on a hard little bed on a rock-fortressed island, 
in alien seas. 

Here, surely, must Eugenie have felt her own 
woe a companion picture to that end of great, 
though fretted, fortunes. 

Hers was, at least, to be the better fortune. 

The Porte Maillot had been safely passed. The 
well-conceived plot of patient, doctor, brother, and 
nurse had been easily accepted for truth by senti- 
nels and gendarmes. Saint-Germain, Poissy, Mantes 
— where there was a successful change of vehicles 
and horses — as far as Thibouville-la-Riviere, the 
village automobiles now pass on their way to the 
Normandy coast. These had been entered and left 
behind with tremors as every town was approached, 
only to have such fears allayed and assuaged. 

59 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Everywhere throughout the whole of the long 
seventeen hours' journey the travelers had found 
that France was traversing an historic epoch with 
a calm and an attitude of easy acceptance that 
announced the country's sound morale. 

Close to Evreux, indeed, fearsome sounds — shouts, 
the singing of the "Marseillaise," a crowd of peasants 
and townspeople waving flags, with arms sawing the 
air, awoke renewed anxiety. It was only a pastoral 
way of celebrating the birth of La Repiihlique. 

At Thibouville-la-Riviere the second most serious 
danger confronted the party. At ten at night it was 
found that no farther progress could be made. The 
Empress and her friends had to be content to pass 
the night in a miserable inn. Every room was filled. 
It was solely owing to the courtesy of a certain 
coachman, who had already gone to take possession 
of the last available chamber, that a bed was pro- 
curable for a "poor lady," too weary to proceed on 
her journey, and for her "nurse." 

It was at Lisieux that perhaps the most pathetic 
episode of this odyssey of the imperial flight occurred. 

Having been conveyed so far as Serquiny by 
train, no vehicles being available, and a compartment 
in the train having been found happily vacant, from 
this junction of Serquiny on to Lisieux, it was at 
the latter little picturesque city that one might have 
beheld a picture such as proves the way of fate with 
mortals who have been set above their fellows. 

A figure, tall, stately, yet stooping as lliough 
weighed beneath some burden of misfortune or of 

GO 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

sorrow, might have been seen standing beneath the 
porte-cochere of a carpet-factory. Pale as was the 
face, with Hnes deeply indented from loss of sleep 
and eating cares, yet head and face were still proudly 
held. The rain was pouring down pitilessly. And 
this lady, standing, was seemingly waiting for the 
shower to cease. 

"When I arrived at the street leading to the sta- 
tion, I saw the Empress standing under the rain, at 
the opening of the factory, seemingly alone, present- 
ing such a perfect picture of abandonment as I shall 
never forget," Doctor Evans tells us in his interest- 
ing account of the journey. 



VI 

The remainder of the journey was thenceforward 
accomplished without further incident. 

A suitable vehicle had been found at Lisieux, and 
the thirty-five-odd kilometers to Deauville were 
made along one of the most perfect of Normandy 
roads. 

In the happy consciousness of the knowledge that 
the journey was nearing its end, the travelers at 
last found relief from their days' and nights' anxiety 
in exchanging experiences and in recounting some 
of the amusing episodes of the flight. Madame 
Le Breton, in one cafe along the road, had made the 
coffee; in another, the only luncheon obtainable for 
the Empress had been a bologna sausage, bread some 
two yards long, and wine and cheese. Eugenie pro- 

61 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

duced her two handkerchiefs, which were the only 
articles that she had brought with her and which 
she had carefully washed and as carefully pressed. 
At Thibouville-la-Riviere Mademoiselle de Monti jo 
was reappearing, now that the ermine mantle of 
royalty was slipping off. 

Better even than the relief which permitted smiles 
and a philosophy of acceptance — "When we are not 
pushed to necessity we do not suspect our aptitude 
to do certain things," the Empress had said — better 
than a semi-reconquered gaiety was the taste of salt 
on the lip. For the sea was sweeping its fresh breath 
across the lovely Pont-l'Eveque plains, up through 
the romantic valley of the Touques, across whose 
verdant plains and under whose richly foliaged trees 
another queen — one dead long centuries — looked out, 
it is said, for many a long day from the ramparts 
of a certain chateau whose walls are still standing, 
to hear news of the taking of England by her lord, 
William, soon to be known as "the Conqueror." 

VII 

For those who delight in decking historic episodes 
with the tinsel of romance, the Empress's flight was 
to culminate in an entrance to the Deauville hotel 
through secret doors. The party were also to con- 
front, further, all but insurmountable difficulties in 
the reluctance of an English nobleman to convey 
an Empress in flight to England in his yacht. 

Doctor Evans was able to effect the Empress's 

62 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

entrance into Mrs. Evans' private apartments in 
the Hotel de Paris, at Deauville, with utmost se- 
crecy. He led the way to a Httle door opening on 
a garden, through which he could insure Eugenie's 
presence in the Evanses' rooms being unknown to 
either proprietor, servants, or guests. 

Once in the spacious security of these hotel rooms, 
it must have seemed to the weary Empress that 
safety and peace were greeting her in the warmth 
of the sympathetic welcome extended by Mrs. 
Evans. 

There were to be, however, only a few hours of 
this most grateful sense of security, in this enjoyment 
of tried friendship, as well as in the physical and ma- 
terial comforts of luxurious apartments. 

The ever-pursuing shapes of fear lest at any mo- 
ment the fleeing Empress might be tracked, arrested, 
and taken back to Paris sent the indefatigable 
doctor at once to the Deauville docks. His one 
hope, his driving purpose, was to have his Empress- 
friend sent safely forth on her voyage to English 
shores. 

His inquiries at the Deauville port elicited the 
news that an English yacht was to sail for England 
the very next morning. In the owner, Sir John 
Burgogne, the doctor found the typical English 
gentleman. Sir John had served in his Majesty's 
army; he was proud of his yacht, delighting in show- 
ing off its good points. With characteristic English 
bluntness, he refused point-blank, on hearing Doctor 
Evans' demand to undertake the adventurous task 

C3 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

of embarking as dangerous a guest as a French Em- 
press, flying for her very Hfe, and of being responsible 
for her safety, to England. Sir John gave several 
excellent but inacceptable reasons to the two Amer- 
icans for this somewhat cavalier refusal. Although 
he had to acknowledge, in fronting the amazed doc- 
tor's outcries, that the Empress was in danger every 
moment she remained on French soil, yet he an- 
nounced his refusal as irrevocable. That Sir John 
was a true Englishman at core, however, was soon 
proved. When Doctor Evans, indignant, yet dis- 
guising a state approaching anger under a coat of 
courtesy, stated he had seen another yacht, one 
smaller than Sir John's, one which he was quite 
certain could be obtained for their purpose, the 
Englishman's prudence gave way before his fear of 
disastrous consequences to a woman — and, above all, 
to a crowned head — in distress. 

The smaller yacht "would never do," Sir John 
declared. Bad weather was coming on, the seas 
were high, and so small a craft could never live in 
such seas as might roll up. 

"Go and see my wife. If Lady Burgogne consents 
to the Empress coming on board, she can come." 

Lady Burgogne did nol need persuasion. A lady 
was in distress; that the proposed guest happened 
to be as distinguished a personage as the Empress 
Eugenie seeking safety for her very life in England 
was more than a compelling reason for coming to 
her rescue. 

Once again, therefore, before the early breaking of 

64 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

a tempestuous dawn, the Empress set forth with her 
devoted friend and Madame Le Breton. In fitful 
gusts, a strong nor' wester tore through tree-branches, 
whipping the keen air to stinging cold. The dull 
moon was chased in and around by murky clouds, 
the pallid moonbeams only making blacker the utter 
darkness. No light nor lanterns could guide the 
party on their way; past the Place de Morny, down 
the rue du Casino, nowadays as familiar to Deauville 
and Trouville visitors as is la rue de la Paix; on and 
on tlu'ough puddles, into which_the two ladiessplashed 
ankle-deep, stumbling against piles of lumber, knock- 
ing against railings and street debris ; dirty, wet, mth 
clothes drenched and with boots clogged with mud, 
at last the satiny deck of the Gazelle was reached. 
The gracious welcome extended to the distinguished 
fugitive was as gratifying as was the reviving hot 
punch proffered. 

Eugenie's trials were not yet ended. As though 
the fates had joined hands to make merry over fallen 
grandeur, the seas were to join in wild, tempestuous 
dances. No sooner had the Gazelle put out from port 
than she fronted gales such as captain and owner 
never before remembered to have experienced. In 
lieu of the few short hours Sir John had reckoned 
would land them on the English coast, there were 
nearly twenty-four hours of battling with seas such 
that each monster wave promised to engulf the 
boat. Again and again some of those on board gave 
themselves up for lost. 

"I was certain we were lost," the Empress ad- 

65 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

mitted later, "but, singular as it may seem, I ex- 
perienced no fear. If I disappear now, I said, death 
cannot come at a better moment, nor give me a 
more desirable tomb." 

At last the Isle of Wight showed its shores. And 
still there was tlie night to face and mountainous 
seas to fight. The Empress seemed to have escaped 
imprisonment and possible death only to find in 
this savagery of the elements a fiercer foe. 

Her fate was not to die — but to live on and on. 
Slie was to see her husband return, a broken man, 
from defeat and disaster worse than the death he 
had so coveted. Eugenie was to make as grave a 
mistake in the ruling of that fine creature, her son, 
as she had in attempting, in her ignorance and folly, 
to guide and direct a great nation. She was to live 
to see the France she deemed only a Napoleon and 
his despotic government could save leap to renascent 
vigor, proving forces and qualities it had needed 
democracy to develop to fullest capacity. 

She was to live on to see the ocidar proofs of 
France's victories pass her very doors — victories won 
by a free people, fighting their own fight for a free 
France. 

Forty-odd years later the Republic was to prove 
to an amazed, electrified world that a free people, 
under a free government, could outrival in Spartan 
endurance, in splendor of mihtary achievement, and 
in heroic self-sacrifice all the historic records of 
Greece or Rome. 

As a white-haired old lady, her years stretching 

C6 



THE FLIGHT OF AN EMPRESS 

far into the 'nineties, the aged ex-Empress had to 
stand, leaning on her cane, a year or more ago, to 
allow a long line of German prisoners to pass across 
the road separating the woods of Farnborough from 
her own inclosed park and residence. 

Did those dim eyes take a backward glance into 
the past and marvel that imperial grandeur failed 
where a bourgeois people and government have won 
immortal laurels? 



CHAPTER IV 



TO IIONFLEUR — THE ANCESTOR 



VI/'ITII llio Dc^aiivillo of the aftcr-the-war <^i\y 
* ^ days I had no business. The fwurcaux riches 
and the iioiircaux paurres who crowd the st^inds on 
the day of Le Grand Prix, the crowds who fill the 
golf-chib, the casino, and the beaches — with none 
of these have I aught to do. In the piu'suit of pleas- 
ure the gay world follows there are disillusioning un- 
certainties. I was ofl' on a bout of more assured 
delight. 

Once more I was to take the tidal boat at Havre. 
On this occasion it was to cross over to Ilonflein-. 
The boat was what we Americans would call an early 
starter. Were one bent, as was I, on a voyage of 
discovery, one could have chosen no more perfect 
moment. It was indeed so matutinal an hour I 
was the only Columbus. I inwardly saluted each 
Havrais market-woman aboard as a fellow-advent- 
urer; in lieu of being, it is true, on a quest for 
novelty, these thrifty creatures were true Normans, 
on the trail of a good bargain at the Ilonfleur 
markets. 

G8 



ro IIONFLEUR— THE ANCESTOR 

This sliort cruise across the mouth of the Seine 
presented so uncommonly animated a scene I, for 
one, had little mind for exclianging my fauteuil 
(V orchestra, as one might term my seat on the bridge, 
for experiments on land. All those historic heads 
had vanished. Tragedies could not relive their ter- 
rors under such skies. 

With the sun's great shining on earth and heaven, 
there seemed a something, a sign, as it were, written 
above, on the blue zenith, to serve as a promise 
one were going to another, to a different world. 
Busy trafficking, clamoring exchanges, active con- 
sulates, and great ships, sovereigns flying for their 
lives — all this modern world was like a page already 
conned and the leaf turned down. 

The sun itself shone with another brightness on 
these Seine waters. It was now the true Normandy 
sun. In summer, when the sun pours out its gold 
on Norman lands or water, sober Normandy laughs 
— that is, when among tree-branches or along pebbly 
beaches it is not singing. 

Over these sparkhng waters there was the best 
of company afloat. There was such a varied col- 
lection of craft as for four and more long years the 
Seine has i)roudly carried, with due sense of its im- 
portance as the great watery highway. There were 
still camouflaged ships, but these were going the 
right way now — they were heading for their home 
ports. There were long strings of lesser ships, towed 
by smoking, }>ustling torpedoes snorting the snort 

of the small in stature. As fresh proofs of the recent 
6 69 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

peace there were the heavily laden Norwegian ships, 
their decks piled high with lumber from Norway's 
forest-lands — those woods that are to be soon the 
reconstructed homes of thousands in devastated 
France. 

For lively motion and grace, there were the sea- 
gulls, dipping, soaring, squealing. For poetry, there 
were the boats that turn the plainest-faced water- 
way into a poet's corner, and there was a fishing- 
fleet sailing along as only boats with true sails step 
the waters. Their carmine, yellow, white, and 
brown sails were printed against the blues of this 
summer heaven. 

Between the sudden warmth of the day, between 
the dazzle of the glistening Seine, between this novel 
sense of going on a voyage of discovery, one had a 
heady feeling. The great breath of the river-mouth 
seemed a promise of large adventure. 

On rounding the Honfleur pier there was no dis- 
illusioning break in this fantastic hope. We were 
fronting a little world a thousand miles away from 
commercial Havre, from frivolous modern Deau- 
ville. 

In point of fact, we were to slip back, in landing on 
the Honfleur quay, exactly three hundred years. We 
were, at first, a little bewildered at the plunge. It 
is not given to every one to take the right mental 
dive, at the first moment of encounter, into a seven- 
teenth-century town. It seemed incredible as great 
a contrast could be presented between bustling, up- 
to-date Havre and this ancient-faced town. But 

70 



TO HONFI.EUR— THE ANCESTOR 

herein lies the hold France has on the world — it is 
the land of contrasts. 

Ilonfleiir presented itself, at the first glance, as 
possessing the right ancestral charm. 

There was a bewildering medley of streets running 
riot up and down hill, and of fishing-boats so close 
to stone quays they seem to have sprung from their 
very bowels. There were other streets starting off, 
running away up hill and down, as though pirates 
were about to loot them. 

That the charm of the unexpected may be com- 
plete, Honfleur presents you, at the very outset, 
with an antique gateway, still guarding its docks, 
all but tumbling into them, in fact, with a church 
that turns its back on you, as might a ship showing 
you its stern; and with a beautiful wooden belfry 
that is a true belfry, yet one which is also a house, 
a magazine in which to store things, and which has a 
clock that never goes — like the town itself that is not, 
nor ever will be, up to the hour of the present day. 

However much one's feet may ache to go off on a 
walking-tour about those irregular, rioting little 
streets, the curious gateway we were to learn was 
"La Lieutenance " enchains one. This delightful 
survival of Honfleur's fortifications has as many 
magics of attractions as a heroine of romance. Its 
tiled roof, its steep steps, its single audacious tree — 
one seemingly suspended in midair — its library, 
its garden, its pale brick and gray facings, and above 
all other embellishments its coquettish turrets, be- 
tween which, like a rare jewel in an antique setting, 

71 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

there stood a Virgin under glass — no — there was no 
resisting the appeal of so many contradictory feat- 
ures. 

Old as is the gateway, we were to find the past 
incarnate in the living present. The Virgin as one 
proof that "La Lieutenance" was serving an up-to- 
date usage, yet one as old as the gods. The Virgin, I 
saw, was shrined in a bower of roses. 

La Lieutenance, so named as having been formerly 
the headquarters of the king's lieutenant, its foun- 
dations being of the fourteenth century, the building 
itself having been erected in the sixteenth century, 
was formerly protected by a crenelated bastion and 
surrounded by a moat. 

Le Chemin des Rois, starting at Rouen and going 
to Caen, passed through Honfleur. What a long pro- 
cession of notabilities have taken the journey that 
used to prolong itself into days and even weeks! 
Charles VIII knew Honfleur, since he must climb its 
hills, from the port, on his way to Mont-Saint-Michel; 
Henri IV and his queen, Marie de Medicis, with a 
numerous suite, saw the town in its seventeenth- 
century picturesque aspect (1603). Louis XIII fol- 
lowed seventeen years later to besiege Caen, and more 
than a century later on two travelers who little 
divined the tragic future in store for them — the 
Due de Penthievre and the lovely Princesse de Lam- 
balle — must have looked forth on that town of 1771 
with as amused and curious eyes as do we in noting 
its ancient features still remaining in this our 

twentieth century. 

7« 



TO IIONFLEUR— THE ANCESTOU 

When the Lieutenance sat for its portrait to such 
masters of the briisli as Corot, Daiibigny, and 
Fran(^ois, even then in the mid-nineteenth century 
the antique face of the beautiful gateway framed in 
tliat more medieval town than the one we know, 
these great artists may well have had the same secret 
joy of the discovery of Ilonfleur's rare beauty as 
Boudin did when he revealed through his pictures at 
the Salon the magnificence of the Trouville beaches 
to the amazed Parisians of Napoleon Ill's day. 



Two fishermen were utilizing the steps leading to 
the "Bibliotheque" as by right of occupancy. 

They were mending their nets. They were also 
smoking their black pipes, as their shuttles glanced 
in and out of the coarse web. Just such debonair, 
rugged-faced sons of the sea have sat here, on these 
same stones, at the very same task, their lips breath- 
ing gossip and their breath exhaling the acrid odor 
of old Calvados — the heady Normandy brandy — 
as for long centuries others have thus ensconced 
themselves in this cozy corner. 

One of these hardy fishermen slanted an eye, as 
he worked, across to the quay. A lively dispute 
was going on between two officers in khaki, in a small 
military car, and a fishwife; the latter was standing 
beside her crates of freshly landed mussels. The 
fishing-boats had just come in and their elderly 
vendor was holding her own against the sons of Mars. 

7ii 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Tlie woman's voice rang high and sharp. Her 
pantomime was as expressive as speech. There were 
dramatic gestures; the ribbed purphsh hands pointed 
now to the full baskets, with their wet, shining shells, 
still mud-incrusted, and next the lean arms were 
pointing skyward, as though to invoke Heaven's 
connivance in supporting the price demanded. 

"She'd fleece a pawnbroker," dryly remarked the 
observing net-repairer. 

The woman had heard the compliment. For now 
she had won her battle. The dripping basket had 
been lifted into the car and the ofiicers were off with 
a laugh. 

The fishwife took her time to attend to the less 
important business of taking up the cudgels for her 
assailed honor. Her voice now cracked upon the air: 

"And you — where do your sous go, you lazy, 
good-for-nothing louts .'^ Wine-sops that you are, 
with your wives in rags, and your children crying for 
bread!" 

Down the steep steps of the quay the woman 
plunged presently, her own sous ringing their merry 
jingle in her pocket. The men laughed the easy, in- 
different laughter of men when attack comes from 
a quarter outside the home fortress. 



II 

The church that reminded one of a ship, we found, 
had been perhaps patterned after one. The interior 
of Sainte-Catherine's seems the replica ofja boat turned 

74. 



TO HONFLEUR— THE ANCESTOR 

upside down. Its cradle roof looked uncommonly 
like an inverted fishing-craft. There is, indeed, a 
legend in Honfleur that the sailors and fisherfolk 
had their say when their chief church was a-building. 
It was to be entirely of wood, like unto those they 
had seen and knelt in in far-away Norwegian lands; 
and as nearly as possible the interior roof was to re- 
semble a boat's bottom. The church is in reality 
of the flamboyant order, built in the later fifteenth- 
century years. There were some panels below the 
organ-loft in which were some beautifully sculptured 
figures carved in the seventeenth-century elaborate 
style. 

More interesting even than these charming sculpt- 
ures was the living figure of a priest moving about 
the choir and altar. Never have I seen a priest so 
entirely at home in his church as was this Monsieur 
le Doyen. He was setting chairs to rights; he was 
arranging the vases of flowers on the altar; and he 
was stepping backward with the air of an anxious 
and critical housewife to mark the effect of his com- 
bination of the gilt candelabra and the tall lilies. 

He was calling to an equally active youth, also 
entirely unabashed by ecclesiastical surroundings, 
"Mon petit, be sure the vestments are made ready!" 

The lad dashed down a pair of steps. From sub- 
terranean depths there came in response, "They are 
all set in order, Monsieur le Doyen." 

It was mon petit this and 7}io?i petit that until the 
altar was like unto a bower, finished to the taste of 
both priest and acolyte. There was next a most 

75 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

decorative effect produced by the massing of dozens 
of flags. These flags of the AlHes were dexterously 
affixed to the stout, rude, wooch^i nave pillars. We 
left the two still at work, realizing we must seek in 
the open the answer to this feverish haste of prepa- 
ration. 

At the Empire church porch the mystery seemed 
rather to Ihicken. 

Two stout peasants, clad in the Mack of Sunday 
attire, were interchanging remarks that hardly 
savored of piety: 

'''Non, la Viczge ne de^ouchc pas ce soir'* ("The 
Virgin does not sleep out to-night — she is to rest 
here"). 

"Ah-h! Then Saint-Leonard is to be slighted, it 
seems." Both the women laughed, as though the 
joke had a peculiar relish. 

A saint whose feelings were being thus trifled with! 
A holy lady whose habits at night seemed, at least, 
to be unusual; a busy priest; an excited acolyte — 
and two gossi})ing townswomen who could joke 
about as good a inan as was Saint-Leonard — dead 
though he had been all these years — it scarcely 
needed further enlightenment to assure the dullest 
that something out of the ordinary was to take place 
in Ilonfleur. 



CHAPTER V 



THE FETE OF THE VIRGIN 



T TONFLEUR appeared, indeed, to be stirred by 
^ -■• some form of unwonted excitement. Hurry- 
ing <^roups of townsfolk, of sailors, and old fisliwives 
were moving upward, onward, as thoiigli propelled 
by common desire to be the first to gain some center 
of attraction. 

All the fisherfolk were deserting the quays. 
Gaudily attired sailors were issuing from every dark, 
mysterious alley and blind court with the swaggering 
gait of men conscious of the effective aid their pres- 
ence must lend to any festal occasion. 

Yet the crowd as a crowd was sober-faced, or it 
would not have been a Norman gathering. Gaiety 
and laughter come after a libation to the gods, not 
before, in this land of practical, material-minded 
souls. Be it a bargain with Heaven or man, the 
Norman considers gravity ])roof of well-bred de- 
corum as well as donning of prudent armor. 

On this occasion it was the town rather than its 
people which gave away the secret of tlie day. The 

77 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

whole town was en fete. Triumphal arches, garlands 
hung from tall Venetian standards, flags of all the 
Allied nations, of all sizes and shapes, and flowery 
wreaths made the gray-faced streets and houses 
wear the air of ancient dames bedecked for some 
royal visit. In a certain sense, a royal visit it was to 
be for both Honfleur and the Honfleurais. 

The fete was the anniversary of the "Crowning 
of the Virgin," of the famous little chapel of the 
Virgin, on the Cote-de-Grace, above the town. 

For over eleven centuries this chapel has been the 
one to which fishermen and sailors have made pil- 
grimage to implore protection, on starting forth on 
a long or dangerous voyage, and to whose shrined 
Virgin they bent their steps to profiler praise and 
thanks for answered prayers. 

Six years ago this Lady of Mercy was crowned, 
with a state and splendor worthy of her great, en- 
during renown. For this Marie of the Cote possesses 
miraculous powers; she stands high in the heavenly 
councils, her devotees will tell you; and her chapel, 
whose walls are hung with ex-votos, proves a record 
of answered prayers and a potency in the cure of 
disease second only to her sister at Lourdes. 

In these great days of victory, grateful Honfleur 
and her ecclesiastical guides felt impelled to proffer 
to the Virgin renewed proofs of their gratitude and 
reverence. How many a knee has been bent in the 
dark little chapel, to breath a prayer for a lover, a 
husband, a son at the front ! 

I was to have convincing proof of the Virgin's 

78 



THE FETE OF THE VIRGIN 

protective powers. A wizened, scarlet-faced woman 
whose work-worn hands told of farm labor had 
ejaculated, "Dieu! que cela va etre beau, la fete!" 
Finding a sympathetic audience, she continued: 
"The Virgin, Madame, there's one who answers 
prayers. It is she who brought my 'man' through 
Verdun and the Somme. Praise be to her and the 
Good God ! For during all these long four years and 
more I never lost a day in begging her grace. I 
toiled up — yes, every day — early as dawn. I walked 
up that hill to say a prayer, in rain, tempest, and hot 
sun, and to light a candle. Marie did not forget my 
Henri," was the farmer-woman's confession as I 
sat beside her on a keg of nails, close to the quay, 
waiting for whatever might happen. 

The peasant who had chosen to rest her own bones 
was seated above me on a sack of grain. We were 
both idly surveying the scene, as I supposed. My 
neighbor, however, was awaiting her homme, she 
conveyed to me. 

A peasant, presently, ruddy of face, jovial of 
aspect, with smiling blue eyes, and a straw hat tipped 
at the angle that proclaimed the wearer had not re- 
nounced the capture of our sex, advanced toward the 
stunted, seated figure. 

"Eh ben! la vieille — t'es prete? Art ready, old lady? 
The climb will limber up your old, old bones," and 
the Hem'i of the miraculous intervention gave his 
spouse a rough nudge, winked at my own smile, as 
he added: "Sitting by the fire makes dead flesh. 
Give me the trenches for making one sup})le." 

79 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFH^LDS 

With a hoarse laugh Henri put his arm in his dull- 
faced wife's arm, and both were soon lost in the 
crowd. 

The day, I found, was to be replete with hap- 
penings. 

An old friend suddently turned the corner of La 
Lieutenance. 

He stared, grasped his beret, to pull his salute 
properly, as he exclaimed, with a smile that revealed 
his neglect of dental aid: 

"Tiens! Madame is returned." 

As by right, he took his seat beside me on the 
empty grain-bag. 

I now knew my fate. I was in for a delightful 
monologue. As happens rarely with monologuists 
— those captains of conversational trusts — the orgies 
of talk indulged in by Pierre Leonard Paul Maclou 
were watched for, intrigued for, were indeed esteemed 
as coveted privileges l)y those who knew what 
Maclou could tell you, once he was at his best. 

Maclou was a well-known Honfleiu* personality. 

His twisted face, his too-sudden nose, his debonair 
air of finding life a i)erj)etual entertainment, whether 
on sea or land — this weather-stained, keen-featured 
fisherman had sat for his portrait to generations of 
artists. 

Maclou knew his value. He realized to the full the 
importance of embodying the looked-for typical 
characteristics of a sea-salt and a Norman. 

My friend was in good vein. 

He was giving me all the news of the town. He 

80 



THE FfiTE OF THE VIRGIN 

dwelt at length on the significance and the impor- 
tance lent to the festival about to take place by the 
adliorence of his })rolhor fishermen to the pro])osed 
celebration. This consenting attitude had not been 
effected, obviously, without some twistings of con- 
scientious scrui)les. New World fashions in unbelief 
had played their part in a town where, only a few 
centuries ago, Protestants and Catholics were cutting 
one another's throats to i)rove whose church was the 
more Christian. 

Maclou was teaching me some valuable lessons. 
He explained at great length how it was possible for 
a man to present two fronts — well — to the Virgin, 
for example. He instructed me in the difficult art 
of hedging. With graphic lucidity Maclou demon- 
strated how one could guard against losing the Lady's 
precious guardianship, and yet how one could man- 
age to keep true to certain forms of unbelief. 

"^a va bien — Madame — it goes well enough, once 
one is safe on land, to sneer and scoff. To say: 
' What can a wooden statue do for you — ^up there on 
the hill? The Mother of Christ? Who's to prove it?' 
Well, on land, you see, one's feet stand on firm 
ground, on ground that doesn't slide about. There 
are no mountains of the sea to slump down on you, 
and presently you're done for. One can be as brave 
then as any poilu on a good road or in a Honfleur 
street. 

"But — nom d'un chien! — once out there" — and 
the knotted, purplish hand was waved toward the 
Seine's great mouth, vomiting its waters into the 



, IIP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

sea — "once beyond Mother Seine, out in the open, 
in that swash, with hglitning and tliunder for a sere- 
nade, on a niglit wlien slie's in a nasty tem])er, and 
one's sense of safelj'' conu\s back in a jiffy. One runs 
to port, I can tell you. 'A la merci de la Sainte- 
Vierge!' I cry louder than the loudest. Oh, mais 
oui! I'm all for the church and Marie then. It's 
on land one can afford to be a socialist and against 
the priests." 

There was a brief ])aiise. INIy friend was extri- 
cating a huge red-and-yellow handkerchief from the 
vasty depths of his bulging pockets. Some interesting 
and even valuable seconds were lost; Maclou must 
give due time for the trumpet-like blast every Nor- 
man feels is essential to a thorough nasal vacuum- 
cleaning performance, before he went on; for go on 
he did. lie felt he nuist justify his own spiritual 
contradictions by implicating his town. 

"Well — you see, we socialists here are on top now. 
Even the priests must consult us. Why — here — 
no longer ago than a month when this anniversary 
was being planned, Monsieur le Doyen himself 
didn't know whether he could coiiut on us or not. 
Yes, from the jjriests and the mayor down, no one 
knew how we would take it — jiow we would stand 
the parading of La Sainte-Marie and the priests 
through the streets. There was a chance we might 
turn ugly, you know; that we'd refuse outright to 
lift a finger to heli) decorate the town, or keep our 
women from giving a sou to the show. It's always 

tlie women who turn traitor to big things if there's 

8i 



THE FfiTE OF THE VIRGIN 

a priest and a chance to show themselves in a pro- 
cession. 

"Ben — we disappointed the sociahsts up in Paris. 
We were, after all, good citizens of Ilonfleur first 
and socialists afterward. There is our answer." 
Pierre twisted his thumb outward — a thumb as 
gnarled as a century-old branch. He had turned his 
eyes to the triumphal arch spanning the town's 
high street. 

"That's one of them. There are many others, 
as you'll see. But our street beats all the others. 
Will Madame come and have a look?" 

Pierre's gaze now was like tliat of a child begging 
a grown-up to see a prized belonging. 

La rue Gambetta is, and has been, for longer cen- 
tiu'ies than even an American millionaire can satis- 
factorily trace his descent from a follower of William 
the Conqueror, on the great adventure of the con- 
quest of England — this street of Gambetta has been 
the home of sailors, mariners, and fisherfolk for cen- 
turies and centuries. 

From the latticed windows, naval officers in re- 
treat, captains and mates on half-pay, have continued 
their intimacy with the sea. Low tide, high tide, 
each and every signal raised on ship or sloop have 
been as eagerly noted, deemed as exciting an event 
as was a love-token in youth. 

Out from that street sailors and mariners have 
gone since and before France was wholly France, 
to Brazil, lo the Indies, and to start the new race 
of men thai have glorified their parentage as Cana- 

83 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLErn:LDS 

diiins in our own war. The street luid flnn<:f its 
flags iind its iai>estries, liad erected its triiinii)]ial 
arches for dukes, iwinces, the king's ministers, for 
Ileury IV, and Le Roi SoKmI, 

Tile arcli tliat \cd into the Sailors' Street was as 
uniciue and original in design as a futurist's attempt 
to tortiu'e beauty into his conception of truth. Tlie 
arcli, liowever, had the advantage of uniting hotli 
realism and beaut}'. Imagine fine, brown fish-nets 
draped as curtains; and for curtain sashes new life- 
l)reservers wreatlied in flowers. Long oars, i)olished 
to mirrory brightness, posed u})right, as might i)ro- 
tective spears, against the sides of the arch; and 
above, as further decorative adjuncts, there w (>re two 
huge anchors, j)aint('d bhuN brilliant \\ilh golden stars. 

Thus wreathed and garlanded, the arch letl the 
way to a street that was a bower. AVhere, save from 
centuries of taste-develoi>ed instinct, had rude hands 
learned to fashion such delicate, such magical effects, 
from costless material.^ Here were windows framed 
in beautifully made wreaths, roses and fruits geo- 
metrically set therein to give an imi)ression of such 
borders as the great artists designed for their costly 
tapestries. The wreaths were fashioned out of i)ine 
boughs, and the flowers and fruits were made of 
paper. 

IMaclou was now busily exj)laining the process of 
producing such trium])hant effects. We were stand- 
ing in front of an old house that had been tiu'ued 
into a seeming bower of bloom. The harmonious 
blending of colors and the symmetrical arrangements 

84 



THE Fl^TE OF THE VIRGIN 

of garlands, stiff Louis XV bouquets set in tall 
vases, and of wreaths and flags, proclaimed a rare 
touch and sense of design. 

"Joli — hein? Yes. That's my cousin's. She's 
great on decorations. There she is now, looking out 
to see who stops to a])plaud her." A frowzy head 
and a large frame leaned across the garlanded win- 
dow. The woman bowed. I was addressing an 
artist conscious of her talent. 

"You have produced a beautiful effect, Madame." 

"So pleased you like it — we worked hard," was 
the throaty, smiling reply as the disorderly head 
nodded acceptance of the praise. ' 

"We were u[) till midnight cutting out those paper 
absurdities," inter]>olated Maclou, pointing to the 
very realistic copies of wistaria. Fluttering in the 
breeze were long garlands of these delicate, graceful 
spirals. Thus decorated the street Gambetta re- 
sembled rather an open-air ballroom than the some- 
what squalid abode of fisherfolk. 



II 

As I made my way, later, up the high street, 
passing under innumerable triumphal arches, under 
more and more garlands swung across the narrow 
thoroughfares, under flags so thickly set that house 
facades disa])peared and only rose-garlanded win- 
dows framed and trimmed doorways signaled their 
residential character, I found all Honfleur repeating 
this note of beauty. 

7 85 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Ilonflour luul been lurucil iikKhhI Iiilo an alliir. Il 
was abloom Avilli fragrance; it was aflanio with color. 

I, in my Inrn, toiled up the long hill ol' the Cole- 
de-Grace. A beautiful arch, green as the trees that 
had contributed their quota of beauty to the fete, 
this was the stately entrance to the hill ,slo])e. On 
its toj), on the wide esi)hinade, nalure, man, and 
art had combined to produce one of those completely 
harmonious settings for a church festival which only 
France, I think, still i)resents. 

A grove of admirably grou])ed elms made a tliickly 
foliaged background for the whites and blues of tall 
Venetian slandards, AVhile and blue were also the 
colors of the pennants floating from their to])s. The 
hill wore the Lady's owii colors. "NAVeaths and gar- 
lands, banners and the fleur-de-lis of France, as well 
as massed tricolor flags, comnuinicated gay notes 
of brilliance to the slate of the century -old trees. 

Beyond this decorated hilltop one coidd look forth 
on an outlook so \'asl one might almost hope to 
see the shining of England's white clitt's. FiU' as 
the eye could sweep, toward the west there lay at 
one's feet, in the foreground, the Seine's wide stretch, 
with the sea's blues beyond. Havre's smoking chim- 
neys made a misty breath, as though the cily had 
human lungs. Beyond the Sainle-Adrcsse lieadland 
there glillered the whitened steel of the vanishing 
sea, flashing as it was lost in the descending cup of 
heaven's blue. 

Out ui>on the f][uiet air, above this incomi)ara.ble 
scene, ai'ose the nuisic of old bells, chiming, halting, 

8U 



TTTE 1 P/iK OF rilE VIRCJNf 

cliiming jigain ilio loudor. This ik'jiht music was 
echoed by all the bells in Hoiifleiir down below the 
hill, rin^in<;" llieii" loiidesl. 

All wiis slir, buslle, confusion anionj,' the gathered 
thousands awaiting the great moment. Thousands 
there were who nuisl nurse their patience, must 
stand and wail. Few indeed were the i)rivileged 
worshijx'rs who could ])iiss beyond the antique porch 
of tlie Lady's tiny chapel. 

'^PluM'e were ])riesis close to the doors protecting 
her Grace. There were other priests working like 
agitated commanders, striving to form the coming 
procession into souie s(>mblance of order. Young 
girls in llie whiles of their nnislins— these first com- 
nuinicjiuls — miisl, be shown where to stand. A long 
line of boys, bearing eliarjiiiiig lillle boats, their 
parents' ofl'ering to M;irie, proved more amenable 
to disci])lin(\ Lefi Eiijauts de Marie, hundreds in 
luimber, ai)i>arently knew their place and ])art in 
the day's hard work. 

'J'here enme a cry louder than all tlie others. 
'Vyr.v c/i(tn/cus('s 1 1 he singers] — -where are they? Why 
do they not come forward? Here, you; you must 
stand here; you uuist lead the others," was the com- 
mand of a struggling, ardent-eyed, authoritative 
young priest, with a face one nu'ght have counted 
on seeing at the head of a regiment. lie was next 
apostrophizing a grou]) of soIdi(MS. 

" Ali-h! — you — beau i)oilu over there, you and your 
coi)ains, be ready, will you — hein? to hel]) carry the 
Virgin, when the sailors havg had enough." 

H7 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

The beau poilu turned a pink face as he smiled his 
assent. The soldiers laughed a hoarse yet smothered 
laugh. To be thus singled out, to be stared at by 
hundreds of people, was an ordeal one must carry off 
with a semi-scoffing air. All the same, they would 
help carry the Virgin. Monsieur I'Abbe was all 
right. They knew each other as never would priest 
and peasants' sons have learned the secret sources 
of the other's powers, had they not laid huddled 
together in the mud of the trenches, or had they not 
found Monsieur I'Abbe there, when they wakened in 
the sanitary train, to brush the flies away and give 
a bandaged hand a cigarette. So, of course, these 
poilus would carry the Virgin. 



Ill 

It was no easy task to press one's way through the 
congested aisles of the little chapel. Yet througji 
that packed mass there pushed and struggled to the 
altar those contrasting figures whose conmiingling is 
one of the chief elements of charm we Anglo-Saxons 
find in a French crowd. 

Soldiers in their blues or khaki; peasants with a 
coif and apron; young widows trailing their crapes; 
fishermen in their berets; elderly chatelaines jingling 
massive gold watch-chains; sturdy citizens of Hon- 
fleur looking their sedatest in top-hat and white 
tie; farmers in the enforced respectability of a wide- 
awake and clean shirt — all these were to gain a 
place before the altar, to mutter their "Ave Maria," 

88 



xiiJL. ri!.iJ^ OF THE VIRGIN 

and to give the Latin touch of the picturesque to 
a Latin festival. 

Impassive, immobile, serene, the golden-huecl Vir- 
gin looked down ujwn her worshipers. On this her 
great day she had descended from her shrine. She 
had been j)laced close to the altar rail, on a broad 
l)lalform wreathed in roses. 

The dim lighting in the choir lent a mystic gloom 
to the CTOwned figure. The devotional incense 
rising from the hearts of her lovers communicated 
what no smoking incense had power to do. The 
Lady of Mercy seemed enveloped in an electric 
atmosphere of devotional ecstasy. 

The Lady had her Divine Child in her arms. She 
wore her tall, golden crown, jewel-studded. From 
her shoulders there hung a long lace mantle. This 
womanly garment gave an astonishingly lifelike, a 
singularly personal, look to the inanimate outlines. 

A young soldier who had distanced his group to 
proffer his prayer and lay his bunch of flowers at 
her feet was but continuing the long procession of 
those who had knelt at Marie's shrine. 

As long ago as the eleventh century, Robert, 
Duke of Normandy, W^illiam the Conqueror's father, 
had built for her her first chapel. This, the later 
chapel of the sixteenth century, was erected by a 
famous duchesse — the Duchesse de Montpensier. 
While kings, queens, and many of the great of the 
earth have paid her their homage, above all others 
this Lady of Mercy loves her sailors and fisherfolk. 

Look aloft, and you perceive dozens of boats, some 

89 



UP THE SEINE TO ini:. ..... .^„..^^^k. 

tall and narrow, others small, and some so exquisitely 
wrought that they must be preserved under glass; 
others equally wonderful in structure, suspended 
from the chapel ceiling, that she and all may see 
them. As for ex-votos, behold the rows upon rows 
of golden hearts which form a crown above her shrine; 
see the marble tablets, so thick upon the wall that 
the wall disappears — whose shining letters attest to 
all the world the hundreds and hundreds of prayers 
she has listened to and answered. 

And so from this all but unknown hilltop, unknown 
to the greater world, out across the seas to the 
cathedral at New York, as from Justinian's "Santa 
Sophia at Constantinople" to the Kremlin at Moscow, 
from the glory that was Rheims' to the untouched 
splendor of Chartres, behold the ever-continuing 
wonder-working power of this Lady of Mercy — 
proof above all others of the dynamic force that lies 
in the secret filters of love and faith. 



IV 

The crowd was now showing signs of restive im- 
patience. Priests, acolytes, and the Suisse, the latter 
gorgeous in his scarlet and gold epaulet, were 
passing in and out of the vestry door. The sacristy, 
it appeared, was found to be overcrowded. Some 
elderly priests, beyond the teasing age of ecclesi- 
astical vanity, had brought their surplices into the 
choir. With a touching simplicity the wliite, pleated 
garments were slipped over head and shoulders. 

90 



THE FfiTE OF THE VIRGIN 

No one among the congregation appeared to con- 
sider this making of a priestly toilet in public 
derogatory to priestly dignity. "Vous voyez, tout 
ce passe en famille chez nous — we are all en famille 
here," whispered my friend and neighbor, with an 
indulgent smile. 

The intimacy between priest and the devout was 
ai)pareutly not limited to earthly relations. "Is 
Monseigneur here — really here.^* I heard he was 
not coming," a lady at my left queried, her anxious 
brow furrowed with inquiring wrinkles. She had 
been briskly praying, rosary in hand, but a moment 
before. She had temporarily stopped intercourse 
with Heaven to ask her question. She seemed en- 
tirely assured of the Deity's courtesy in awaiting 
her return to her devotional exercises. Since God 
is always there . . . 



Now the great moment had come. The Virgin 
and Child were lifted with amazing ease by her sailor 
bearers. The golden figure rose surprisingly tall 
above its flower-decked platform. 

On the parvis, out upon the wide expanse of the 
hilltop, thousands were grouped, awaiting this the 
great moment — for the culminating point of the 
festival was this descent of the Virgin from her 
shrine and her coming out into the open day. 

In the clear daylight the Virgin, borne by her 

sailor lovers, moved along her heights to the sea 

she was to bless. She passed beneath wreathed 

91 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

standards that jfloated her blues. She was made to 
bend her head as she swept her goklen crown under 
triumphal arclies. The pale sunlight touched, with 
almost mystic awe, the delicate outlines of a face 
that moved to tears many among the kneeling 
throngs. 

As the Virgin made her entrance upon the wide 
scene, before her wailing thousands of worshipers, 
there was an instant of hushed excitement. A sen- 
sible viI)ralion of emotional intensity seemed to stir 
and thrill the nuiltitude. One might have thought 
the statue a living presence. Many of her devotees 
were on their knees; tears were falling from many an 
eye, and none was ashamed. 

*'When I see her like that, before us, under the 
open sky — with her Child on her arm, extending 
His little hands — as though to bless us, I am con- 
vulsed with sobs — my emotions suffocate me. I 
am glad to weep," was the touching confession of a 
woman on her knees, close beside me. 

There were also deeper, more j)oignant emotions 
stirring the hearts of those less devout. The flags 
that mai-ried their reds, white, and blues to the blue 
and white colors of the Virgin symbolized the glory 
of Victory. Not one among all these thousands of 
worshipers or unbelievers but was thrilled with the 
exultant consciousness of a France freed, of a France 
at peace. 

A year ago, almost to the very day, those of us 
living along this coast had heard the dread booming 
of the great guns at the front. Whether we ate, 



THE FfiTE OF THE VIRGIN 

or wakened, or walked, or sat, our hearts were leaden. 
Would the Germans advance beyond Montdidier? 
Would Amiens I)e taken? Were that city to fall, 
then Rouen and all this Norman coast would fall 
easy victims to German brutality. 

Just a year ago the long-distance gun was striving 
to paralyze Parisian nerves by day, and by night 
to nuirder men, women, and children. Were we 
indeed to fall under German tyranny? We felt the 
very clutch of that horror-striking grasp at our 
throats. Only those who have lived through those 
fearsome months may know what the Allies' victory 
can mean. 

Cymbals, therefore, clash your loudest! Drums, 
beat as never before! Through yonder brass-voiced 
trumpets let the breath pass as never before have 
human lips chorused triumphant song! 

For it is not alone the Virgin who walks her way 
to the sound of praise and prayer. 

It is our Winged Victory, the Invisible Presence, 
who is beating the very air with her glad wings, 
paeans rising exultant, like mounting incense from 
an antique altar. 

VI 

In the clear daylight, under the ciomed trees, the 
Virgin was being carried along, followed by the vast 
throng of her adorers, toward the sea. 

All eyes were centered on the tall, commanding 
figure of the bishop. He was directing the pro- 
cession toward the heights overlookiug the waters, 

93 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

He was about to bless the sea. 

As the sailors turned to bring the statue in line 
with the ridge of the cliff, a ringing command smote 
the ear: 

"Face au port!" 

The bishop's face was suddenly irradiate. His 
ringed hand, lifted heavenward, was visibly trem- 
bling. And on the deeply lined face there came a smile, 
as though the bishop were saluting a friend. The 
bishop was indeed saluting one he knew well — he 
and the sea were old friends; he was himself a fisher- 
man's son. And those rough-visaged sailors, close 
to his lordship, flashed back from their rigid pose, 
as bearers of their Virgin, the answering smile of 
men who knew that the bishop — in giving his com- 
mand in French and in the seamen's tongue — was 
claiming the comradeship in which he took, for all 
his grandeur, such deep and loving pride. 

The Benediction, voiced in the Church's tongue, 
fell upon the momentary, hushed silence like an 
echo of far-away Roman days, when all the world 
spoke the Latin which now only priests and savants 
use. 



Down the steep hill the mile-long procession pres- 
ently wended its way. The Virgin and her cortege 
were to make a tour of the town. 

Honfleur presents a rare, and now a too rapidly 
vanishing, setting for these open-air Catholic festi- 

!)4 



TTTF. Ft>.TE OF THE VIRGIN 

vals. The wandering streets, Llie timbered, worn-faced 
houses, tlie slate-covered facades framing the inner 
dock, the Gothic spires and Renaissance towers of 
its churches, and the great quays Hned with shipping 
and the fishing-fleet — such a town set in between 
verdant hills and lovely valleys — where save in 
France can one discover as harmonious an Old 
World background? 

Against such effective outlines and faded colors 
there swept, slow and measured of step, all the varied 
processional splendor. 

The antique costume of the Suisse, its scarlets 
and gold, were in amazing relief against the pale, 
pink bricks and the faded cement of La Lieutenance. 
The blues and whites of the choristers; the stately 
bishop in his purples and costly lace; the browns of 
the dark-robed Assumptionist Sisters; the creamy 
snows of a Dominican's habit; and the delicate 
muslins of the girlish first communicants — all these 
contrasting notes made an incomparably rare blend- 
ing with the antique setting of Honfleur. 

VII 

It was, however, at night, when the Lady was car- 
ried back to her own shrine and chapel, that the 
climax of the day's splendor was attained. 

Up the long hill, it was now les beaux poilus who 
were her honored bearers. Choir-boys, priests, Mon- 
seigneur himself, toiled up the steep ascent to see 
her fitly enshrined. Behind the cortege the brown- 

95 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTi.tPiEi.i>c3 

and-black-habitcd nuns — all now whiter of face — 
and the great army of the Lady's adorers — sailors, 
fishermen, gentlefolk, townspeople, fishfolk — thou- 
sands and thousands were filling the roadway. 

The brilliant summer day had paled. Twilight 
was closing its violet and amber-tinted windows. 
Faint stars were pricking the puri)lish skies to add 
celestial lighting to the lights that were now turning 
each human face — all these thousands of human 
shapes — into a mystic, etherealized, an all but 
transfigured host. 

The long day's emotional exciter^ent had intensi- 
fied the pietistic fervor. Hymns were voiced with 
deeper feeling, the notes of many more male voices 
were communicating a richer depth of tone. The 
night air rang with *' Marie, ayez pitie de moi." 
There was exaltation in the long rows of faces. 
Eyes were preternaturally bright. There were spots 
of heightened color on elderly cheeks, and though 
steps sometimes faltered, all moved as though 
worked by some inward, emotional volition. 

Every worshiper carried his or her candle. The 
yellow, twinkling lights lent a strange and unearthly 
glamour to the great s})ectacle. The nearer faces and 
forms that were thus liglited, as they passed, were 
aglow with sudden brilliance, the features were ac- 
centuated, and the eyes were of an amazing softness. 

Farther down the hill the yellow candle-lights 
were growing paler as the mounting shapes them- 
selves, in the faintly illumined distance, were lost 
in the blue of the night. 

96 



THE fJ:te of the virgin 

And before the parvis of her chapel the Virgin 
was held aloft for a last survey. 

A sudden blaze lit up the crowded hilltop. The 
nearer woods were a scarlet grove, aflame. A blue 
world presently succeeded to the deeper reds; and 
then violet tree-trunks and tree-branches melted into 
the blacks of the night. 

The sea would not be outdone. A fiery fountain, 
star-gemmed, flashed skyward to fall in sparklets 
over the dusky waters. Rockets sent their blaze 
into the arches of the night, bidding the stars to 
pale before their startling blues and flaming yellows. 
Beyond, as though in sympathetic answer to this 
last salute, Havre's harbor lights stabbed the night 
with their own white and crimson darts. 

And all the air was full of song. 

It was to the voices of these singing thousands, 
to ringing chimes, to a transformed earth, sky, and 
sea, that the Lady was laid to rest in her shrine. 

Gods die, but their rites survive. Is it only to Latin 
countries the great festivals of Delos, of Athens, of 
Delphi, have banded down across the dead centuries 
this antique sense of grace, of a belief in the joyous 
marriage of color, beauty, gaiety, song, and prayer, 
in the worship of God.^^ 

To this all but unknown people of Honfleur has 
been passed the torch of that vivifying flame that 
lights the altar of beauty and thus incites to re- 
ligious emotivity. Honfleur still lives brilliantly 
through her festal power, as once she lived trium- 
phantly by virtue of her importance, 

97 



CHAPTER VI 



THE STORY OF IIONFLEUR 



/^N the day following the fete I was to find that 
^-^ the story of this little town of Honfleur one 
may liken to the illumined pages of an old missal; 
like certain saints, she also has passed through 
persecution and martyrdom. There are pages of 
her history that should be recorded in letters of gold, 
for in her great days Honfleur played a brilliant part 
in the progressive glories of France. 

For Americans and English alike there is a com- 
memorative tablet affixed to the walls of the pict- 
uresque Lieutenance which arrests the eye: 

Le 3 Scptembre, 1S99, a la Mdnioire de Samuel de Champlain, la 
SociUe du Vietix Honfleur a consacrS cc souvenir avec des marins 
et des equipages du Port de Honfleur. 

II explora VArcadie et le Canada de 1603 a 1007; parti du mime 
port en 1608 ilfonda la ville de Quebec. Emharquements de Cham- 
plain a. Honfleur: Avril 1603—13 Avril 1608—18 Avril 1010— 
Avril 1615— Avril 1617— Mai 1620} 



' On the 3d of September, 1899, the Societe du Vieux Honfleur con- 
secrated to the memory of Samuel de Champhiin tliis tablet, together 
with the sailors and crews of the port of Honfleur. 

He explored Arcadia and Canada from 1G03 to 1607; departing from 
the same port, he founded, in 1608, the city of Quebec. The sailings of 
de Champlain from Honfleur were: April, 1G03 — April 13, 1608 — \\n\\ 
18, 1610— April, 1615— April, 1617— May, 1620. 

98 



THE STORY OF HONFLEUR 

The happy chance of being able to present the 
milieu of so memorable a historical event as this 
setting forth of a great adventurer is not often given 
to a writer. The old houses and quays of Honfleur 
seem to have preserved their seventeenth-century 
setting with felicitous sense of their importance. 

Those slanting, narrov\% slate-faced houses crowd- 
ing the inner basin — just beyond La Lieutenance — 
on these now ancient dwellings Champlain must have 
looked his last as he made each of his seven departures 
for the wilderness. Yonder is the Gothic church, 
now the Honfleur Museum, where he may have knelt 
in prayer; the dim courts and evil-smelling alleys 
are still here, in various parts of the town, whence 
went forth the crews he recruited for his adventurous 
journeys. 

The Honfleur of that now far-away seventeenth 
century was seized as with an intoxicating madness 
to depart for those beckoning lands beyond the seas. 
" Departs pour le Canada " are still to be read in every 
old will in Honfleur and its adjacent parishes. 

Fleets, vessels, ships of all sorts set sail for this 
"New France." In that feverish time the nights 
as well as the days of every citizen of Honfleur were 
colored with flashing hopes of^coming wealth ; gold and 
silver were to flow% a Pactolian stream straight from 
the mines in Canada into the open pockets of these 
money-loving Normans. 

As the wet sands reflect at sunset the brilliant 

sunset hues, every adventurous Norman, before his 

mental eye, saw reflected the gorgeous, luminous 

99 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

clouds of fairy fortunes. It was as easy to secure a 
crew for Canada as a century before it had been to 
recruit an army for the pillaging of churches in the 
war against Protestants. 

The very names of the ships that set their sails 
were an open avowal of the hopes and fluttering 
dreams of the avarice-minded men that went to 
talce ship for the New World: Don-de-Dieu, L'Espe- 
rance, Bon-Esjpoir, departed for the coast of Arcadia, 
with contracts from Henri IV for "exclusive priv- 
ileges of traffic, provided they founded an establish- 
ment." The first attempt to establish this coveted 
right was, as we all know, at Tadoussac on the 
Sagouny. 

If crews were as easily recruited as money was 
found for the arming and equipping of the ships, the 
one great need of rib-born man that pitying Deity 
accorded to Adam in creating the rib-born Eve — 
this need seems, for the first few years of this emi- 
gration to "the land of savages," to have been for- 
gotten. No French women seem minded to turn 
explorers. 

Colbert, the great Minister under Louis XIV, who 
thought of everything, devised a clever scheme for 
peopling this "New France." 

He wrote to the Archbishop of Rouen: "As they 
lyoung girls] may be found in the suburbs of Rouen, 
I believe you will consider it worth your while to 
allow me to implore you to use your authority and 
the credit you have with the cures of twenty or thirty 
of these parishes, to sec if they can find in each, one 

100 



THE STORY OF HONFLEUR 

or two young girls disposed, voluntarily, to go to 
Canada to be married." 

Here was an appeal as irresistible to the priest 
as to the Norman maiden. Every priest believes in 
the holy cause of match-making. And as for the 
unwedded girls, behold they flocked from every 
town and hamlet. The only qualifications being a 
good reputation, sound health, and powers of en- 
durance — dozens of Norman girls could prove them- 
selves fit for acceptance. 

In outlining this, his ingenious scheme, Colbert 
eliminated Parisians. "They would be too delicate 
for household work and the culture of the soil," 
he wrote, somewhat disdainfully. 

Eighty-two marriageable girls presently took ship 
at Honfleur. The cargo, however, of one hundred 
and twenty trained workmen, their tools and in- 
struments, as well as two superb Normandy stallions, 
were to prove serious rivals to the blooming, robust 
Norman maidens. 

On landing at Quebec, the eighty-two marriage- 
able girls, all aflame with curiosity to see what man- 
ner of men were to be these their future husbands, 
trembling with impatience or fear, a-quiver with ex- 
pectancy, were met by scarce a glance of interest. 
The little landing-dock was indeed crowded with 
hardy pioneers and with fierce, feather-crowned 
savages. But the cheers and rapturous enthusiasm 
were not for the paling maidens, but were reserved 
for the trained workmen, for their tools, and above 
all others for the two Normandy stallions. 

8 101 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

One tries to picture the feelings ana the faces of 
those marriageable maidens! Was it, forsooth, for 
this, to see the points of a horse appreciated, that 
they had left family, the home village, which, how- 
ever poor in suitors and prospects, was still suffi- 
ciently civilized to put women at least on a i^ar with 
horses? Imagine the heartburnings of those eighty- 
two marriageable girls! What collective despair! 
What a sickening sense of failure, what a hurt to 
the vanity that, against all the agonies of the long 
and painful sea voyage, had upheld their little bal- 
loon of confident hopes! 

Happily, the poets will have it, that man, since 
Adam, invariably has proved his atavistic instinct 
to return to his first love. According to Genesis, 
before biblical critics wrecked the Garden of Eden, 
Adam loved Eve before ever he did the prehistoric 
horse. This may be taken for granted. 

Those Norman Canadians were not only true sons 
of Adam, but also still true Normans. Their trading 
instinct must quickly have leaped to note the plain, 
staring fact, that whereas there were only two stal- 
lions, there were eighty-two girls waiting for hus- 
bands. Eighty bachelors, therefore, could afford 
to turn indifferent eyes on the stallions, since only 
two owners could possess them. 

One evokes the gay scene of the choosing, of the 
tucking of a smiling maiden under the masculine 
arm. And oft' for the rude hut in the wilderness! 

All hail! I say, to those courageous Norman girls 

whose glorious destiny it was to be the first among 

102 



THE STORY OF HONFLEUR 

European women to pass on the torch of bravery, 
handed down from their Norse ancestors to their 
Canadian descendants. It has been a torch upheld 
with such steadfast, heroic hands as to make, in 
our recent war, the very name of Canadian the 
synonym for valor. 

Monsieur Sorel ^ states : 

This infusion of Frcncli blood, young and valiant, explains 
the extraonhnary development of our race in Canada, the 
fitlelity of this race to the language, to the religion, to the tra- 
ditions of its provincial origin. These women brought with 
them that which was most solid in France — the hearthstone — 
whose flame does not die. Justice has not been done, in these 
particulars, to the part that is due these Frenchwomen. 

II 

To every American and Englishman, the names of 
those who followed Champlain into the rendez-vous 
des sauvages are as household words. There was 
Dupont who made more than twenty voyages to the 
Terre Neuve, starting from these Ilonflcur docks. 
There were Hamelin, Chaudet, La Salle, and Chau- 
vin, the latter being among the few whose golden 
dreams came true. 

There were also those great men, great as organ- 
izers, intrepid as travelers and pioneers, whose reign 
of equity and mercy is still a legend among the 
Indian tribes, while Christianized America has all 
but forgotten what it owes to their Order — to these 
repeated journeyings of the Brethren des Recollets. 

As there is a little of everything in Normandy, 

^ Sorel, Pages Normandes. 

103 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIEEDS 

so in Honflciir there are recording pages of every 
period in French history. 

A famous French historian has said delightfully 
of a bit of furniture in his Honfleur house: "There is 
a vitrine in a certain provincial drawing-room where 
nothing in it has been changed for years. AYhen we 
were children we were told not to touch anything, 
'these things are bibelots.' Later, we said to our 
grandchildren, 'Don't break them, they are 
souvenirs!'" 

Honfleur may be likened to this French vitrine. 
It is crowded with souvenirs. 

You may walk to the Place Thiers or round the 
rare old architectural "souvenir" of the Lieute- 
nance and reconstruct the ancient walls and fortifi- 
cations which the growing town erected to defend 
itself in 1204. During the Hundred Years' War 
Honfleur was sacked by the English king, Edward 
III, and our own war has tauglit us objective les- 
sons in the fine point to which the art of pillaging 
may be carried. 

Those to whom command of the sea means the 
corner-stone of all territorial conquest can revel in 
the accounts of a certain fleet that put out from the 
Honfleur docks, this particidar expedition of 1451 
being that of Norman nobles wearied of English 
oppression. 

Honfleur navigators later rounded the Cape, and 
others knew Brazil and discovered Newfoundland 
as early as 1505. Neither was India unknown to 
these viaitres experts de la mer. 

104 



THE STORY OF IIONFT.KIIR 

Tlio wars of religion ami LiuiL i)olili('ul war of 
"Lilt" pouters" — La Fronde — between them all but 
ruiue<l Ilonflcur. The Due d'Aumale, heading the 
(Jatholics, chascMl tlie Prolesianls up lo Ihe very 
lower of the eliaruiiug old cliurch of Saint-Leonard, 
which can still be seen as it was tlien. 

The fi'ie/e crowning the tower, witli ils bag])Ij)es 
and (lutes, a curious decorative ornanienlation, would 
seem to symbolize the joys of life and of heavenly 
recompense. Yet this tower was the last refuge of 
the Protestants of whom Ilonflem' was the last 
Norman Protestant camp. The besieged fought 
valiantly, rushing to the tower only as a last des- 
perate venlure. 

Saint-Leonard still stands at the very portal to wel- 
come you. Two little captives whose chains arrest 
the eye tell you the saint's history; for this saintly 
man held captivily in horror, to the <h'grec that he 
wooed it for himself to free others, lie went to 
Africa; bought off, when in funds, the galley-slaves; 
freed one; and became his substitute when the purse 
was em])ty. 

'I'hus does the scroll of history unroll itself here 

in I his ancient Norman town. From the far-away 

days when tliat masl<'r slatesman Richelieu rcfpii- 

sitioned the llonfleur fleet to begin the siege of New 

Rochelle, we follow successively the Bour])on kings 

and their Ministers planning new docks and granting 

the town new privileges, uj) to the eledrifying visit 

of Napoleon I, after the treaty of Ann'ens. 

Napoleon, like Colbert, also thought of every- 

lOd 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

thing. He could spare time to plan new ship- 
building docks, in a town so unknown nowadays to 
most tourists its very name recalls not a single 
stii-ring episode of French history. 

Yet, turn the pages of French history and you will 
find nearly every great minister, general, king, or 
emperor, from Duquesne and Colbert, from Louis 
XIV to Nai)oleon, come to Ilonflcur on this business 
of enlarging docks, or of granting privileges, or of 
ordering the creation of huge magazines for the 
drying of salt to preserve fish. 

In one of your tours through this interesting little 
town you will seek the museum. It is filled with 
relics of old Ilonfleur. In a street reminiscent of 
the walled port, to the right of the Gothic church, 
the latter now utilized as a nuiseum, you will see, 
among beautifid brocades, postilion's boots of enor- 
mous size and weight, costumes with the delicate 
embroideries of the Bourbon periods, quaint old 
looms, and a remarkably realistic rei)roduction of a 
shop of "ye olden time." There are two objects 
which will reveal one of the blacker pages of Hon- 
fleur's history. 

A certain reduced copy of an eighteenth -century 
ship will be pointed out as "a slave-ship." And 
some exceedingly well-woven cottons, pasted into a 
large book, will be shown "as the cottons with which 
Ilonfleur traders bought niggers." 

These Rouen cottons were indeed temptingly 
offered in exchange for a growing negro lad or 
child, or for a husband whose devotion to his 

lOG 



THE STORY OF IIONFLEUR 

dusky wife would go to the lengths of selling 
himself into bondage to bedeck a wife in foreign- 
woven splendor. 

Slave-traders, however, were not always restricted 
to commercial dealings in capturing their "load." 
All the horrors, the brutality, and the terrors which 
the innocent and ignorant black race were made to 
suffer, during the disgraceful slave-trading days, 
were endured by those captured and sold by Honfleur 
captains and traders. 

One incident, in the disgraceful history of this in- 
human traffic, lightens the fancy to dwell upon. 
In one of the cargoes from the African coast a young 
prince, from Gambia, was found to have been inad- 
vertently captured. The prince had been indis- 
creetly wandering about the shores of his uncle's 
kingdom. Since there was nothing either in the 
youthful heir's appearance, color, or demeanor to 
distinguish him in the eyes of traders bent on 
seizing any booty of the right complexion, the prince 
was brutally attacked, hustled on board the slave- 
ship, and flung into the hold. 

Some of his fellow-captives recognized their king's 
nephew. Here was a prize too rich to be left at 
Port Royal, along with other job lots. The prince 
was taken to Honfleur, where for some months his 
black face and his royal person, clothed in the Hon- 
fleur cotton bluejeans, coat, vest, and trousers, were 
the daily joy of the wharves and quays. He was 
finally sent back to his kingly uncle, who returned 
thanks to the French authorities for the care taken 

107 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

of the young prince, "whose health was of the most 
flourishing"! 



Will you have a gayer picture of Honfleur in those 
its greater days? 

These were clays when the arrivals of the lumbering 
coaches from Rouen or from Caen was an event; 
when also to cross over to Havre there was at your 
pleasure a sailboat, in which you took passage at 
the risk of tempestuous weather or of being becalmed. 

The Honfleur of those earlier days was gayer, 
more brilliant in color, and lighter of heart than 
now. Song and dance were as common to the Nor- 
mandy peasant, on fete-days and at weddings, as 
nowadays their less lively descendants go to Trou- 
ville and Deauville to watch others dance the "fox- 
trot" and "jazz." Those earlier Normans had a 
better sense of how feet should move to quicken 
brain and incite to true merriment. 

Did a ship come in from the Indies or Brazil or 
Newfoundland, behold! the quays were crowded. 
All Honfleur was en fete. What a moving, entranc- 
ing picture the staring eyes of crews, mates, and 
captains beheld as their ship came to port! 

There were hundreds of Norman maidens flutter- 
ing about, waving hands and handkerchiefs! Tall, 
lacy Normandy caps framed faces aglow with youth 
and health; striped skirts were revealers of the red 
or yellow stockings and bright shoe buckles. The 

108 



THE STORY OF HONFLEUR 

bodices, laced across gauze-covered bosoms, made 
eyes glisten and warm. "Twenty love-conceited 
knots" were tied in honor of the day. 

The commercial traveler and the leveling process 
of democratic principles have decreed that the 
peasant, the villager, the rentier, the bourgeois, and 
the rich must be garbed as nearly alike as purse and 
taste permit. 

On the arrival of the tidal boat from Havre, a 
Honfleur crowd will always be found awaiting the 
passengers, and while you will see hands still waved 
to returning travelers, it will be only the same more 
or less dun-colored crowd one sees from the docks of 
New York to these ports of France. Here at Hon- 
fleur, at least, fishwives, fishermen, sailors, negro 
stokers, and invariably one old Norman, in an old- 
time cap, give to those leaning over the top-wall 
color and race variety. 



CHAPTER VII 

A GRANDSON OF LOUIS PHILIPPE 

HONFLETJR was living along in the quiet of its 
})rovincial calm. Its business pulse was beating 
with satisfying regularity. The ships from Norway 
were coming into its docks laden high with timber; 
the fishermen were netting big hauls; orchards and 
vegetables were filling full the thousands of little 
boxes that twice weekly were sent over to England; 
and townsfolk and farmers were therefore smoking 
the pipe of peace and prosperity. 

There was enough of human depravity, between 
the drunkenness abroad in streets and along the won- 
derful Normandy lanes and roads, between the 
enlivening tales of conjugal infidelities, between the 
purging of one's sold of sins of omission and com- 
mission at Paques (Easter) and Christmas, and the 
following of the Fetes D'leux, in summer, to keep 
even sluggish souls from attacks of moral turpitude. 

It was into such a little town that in the year 1910 
Honfleur was stirred to its very center; a royal 
prince had bought a chfiteau on the Cote-de-Grace! 

The prince presently became endowed with vir- 
tues and qualities only less remarkable than was his 
reputed vast wealth. A Norman, while preaching 

110 



A GRANDSON OF LOUIS PHILIPPE 

perfection in virtue, can always accept second-hand 
moral excellencies, provided the pockets be well lined. 

In the case of Prince Czartorizski there seemed to 
be no necessity of such easy acceptance of human 
deficiencies. The prince was young, handsome, ex- 
traordinarily clever, un lettre, and was also a great 
traveler. His estates, in Silesia — a country as vague 
to the Honfleur mind as Timbuctoo — were, it was 
whispered, as extensive as a province. There were 
also princely palaces, it was rumored, in St. Peters- 
burg, in Paris, and in Moscow. As the ball of gossip 
rolled on, this charming young descendant of the 
Orleans family was soon made possessor of half the 
earth's availa})le lands. 

For a great prince to send a secretary, librarian, 
a man of consequence, and his chef, a reputed cordon 
bleu, along the whole length of the Normandy coast 
to search for a suitable hiding-place for a library — 
^'parhleu — ga — c'est epaiant!'" was Honfleur's verdict. 

No one, it was agreed, over the evening glass of 
cider, or of old calvados,^ save a Pole and a prince 
would ever have conceived of such a project. The 
narrow provincial brain suddenly seemed to expand 
merely by dwelling on such folly; for books — what 
did books bring in, as revenue, if one kept them? To 
a shrewd, money-loving, .90M.9-handling Norman, to 
possess meant something to sell. Whether it be 
cattle, or produce, or one's daughter — although, of 
course, one didn't call sticking out for a good hus- 
band for one's girl and her dot a bargain — "the same 

* Apple brandy. 

Ill 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

as trading horses or a cow" — still possessions to a 
Norman mean always something that can be bought 
or sold. 

To learn that the length of the Seine shores, as had 
the Normandy coast, had been visited by the prince's 
confidential men, that Honfleur had been chosen 
above all other towns, that the Cote-de-Grace was 
decided upon as the preferred site, confirmed the 
citizens of Honfleur in the agreeable conviction that 
Honfleur was the most beautiful of French towns. 
For centuries the townsfolk had consciously carried 
about with them this soothing knowledge. To find 
the truth thus borne in on others — "on one who goes 
around the world" — is always pleasant proof that 
large minds were working outside of Normandy. 

Thus was the purchase of the prince's chateau 
discussed, by high and low. 

Little by little, something of the prince's history 
became known. 

Prince Witold Czartorizski was no less a person- 
age, it appeared, than a great-grandson of the French 
king, Louis Philippe. His grandmother had been 
that tragic figure of a princess who had sued obdu- 
rate revolutionaries to keep the French crown in 
the family. As Princesse Marguerite d'Orleans she 
had her own sad page in the history of the Bour- 
bons: the accidental death of her young husband, 
the Due d'Orleans, heir to the kingdom, was the 
first blow to the hopes of the Orleans branch of the 
Bourbon dynasty. 

French through his Orleans ancestors, the prince's 

Hie 



A GRANDSON OF LOUIS PHILIPPE 

nationality was Polish, his father, Prince Ladislaw 
Czartorizski, being a descendant of the Jaquellons, 
kings of Poland. 

On the death of his parents the young prince and 
his elder brother, Adam, went to live with their aunt. 
Princess Dzialyanska, in an old and beautiful hotel, 
the Hotel Lambert, in the remote He de Paris. In 
this islet of old Paris here and there one still finds 
curiously interesting and magnificent old houses, 
survivals of the great periods of fine Parisian houses. 

Here this lady, a woman of exceptional gifts and 
intellectual tastes and attainments, collected year 
after year a great library — now well known as one 
replete with rare and unique editions, with manu- 
scripts and missals of such beauty and value as to 
make bibliophiles despair of their ever coming into 
the market, since the Czartorizskis can afford to 
keep them. 

On the death of the Princess Dzialyanska, her 
heir. Prince Czartorizski, sold her hotel to his brother, 
and looked about for a fitting place in which to 
house his treasured library. Wishing to be near the 
sea and in the country, he sent his librarian on a 
tour of inspection along the Normandy coast. 

The choice, as has been stated, fell upon the 
chateau on the Cote-de-Grace — that nobly set up- 
land running from Honfleur to Barneville above the 
coast road of the well-known Route de Trouville. 

A romantic incident connected with the most 
fatal events in the history of his Orleans ancestry 
was revealed to the prince as having had this very 

113 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

chateau and its pavilion and grounds as the scene 
of the tragedy. The story of the flight of the King 
Louis Phihppe and his wife the queen, given in the 
following pages, narrates this rare coincidence — one 
quite unknown to the prince at the time of his pur- 
chase of the Honfleur chateau. 

The prince himself took on, in time, the vague 
outlines of a legendary character. While the chateau 
was beautified by additions, while some of its rooms 
were said to be decorated "in royal style," while 
park and gardens were rescued from neglect and 
made to frame, in fitting beauty, this princely 
domain, the master himself was never seen. If he 
came, it was to make a stay as brief as it was stealthy. 
He had vanished before it was known he had actually 
stopped for a night. Those who were fortunate 
enough to meet him enlarged on his charm of man- 
ner, on his cleverness, on his personal attraction. 
"Mais, c'est un sauvage — il ne veut voir personne." 
"C'etait un Benedictin," said Monseigneur Le- 
mon juer, in speaking of the friend he had lost. 

And then one day, in the lonely solitude of an 
over-peopled hotel, this cultivated "savage" who 
would "see no one" was forced to meet face to face 
the relentless Reaper. Death took the charming 
prince unawares; this lover of great books, this 
eager reader of earth's pages, this talented and clever 
wanderer who was always at home wherever he went, 
was at rest, where neither books nor possessions are 
needed, in soul-land. 



CHAPTER VIII 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 



/^N a certain February morning as the skies were 
^-^ palely tinted, opening the short day, an aged 
couple, an old gentleman and an old lady, descended 
from a cart, in front of a 'pavilion, on the C6te-de- 
Grace, the hill abov^e Honfleur. This pavilion was 
a small, one-story, two-roomed cottage fronting the 
road. The chateau was set in a grove of trees in the 
park, overlooking the coast. 

As soon as the cart stopped the two travelers 
alighted. Both seemed overcome with fatigue; yet 
both, in spite of their advanced years, appeared to 
be endowed with a vigor that was accentuated by 
a certain unmistakable air of great distinction and 
of authority. 

A gardener, named Racine, coming forward with 
haste born of curiosity, unlocked, somewhat ner- 
vously, the great gates of the park. lie had received 
notice that two such guests might be expected. His 
master. Monsieur de Perthuis, being absent, Racine 
did the honors of the small dwelling with deferential, 
rustic courtesy. 

115 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

As the travelers entered the cotUige one might 
liave seen a look of immense relief replace an air of 
anxious a])]H'ehension that even a grand manner 
could not wholly conceal. 

The gardener, meanwhile, proved, once within the 
security of the pavilion, that he knew how to serve 
his king. 

The two mysterious travelers were none other than 
the King and Queen of France — Louis Philippe and 
Marie Amelie. 

Racine, the gardener, had the quick Norman wit. 
A cheap portrait of the king, in his kitchen, had 
revealed to him the identity of his two royal guests. 

In this unpretentious dwelling the royal fugitives 
for several anxious days were to live in two tiny 
rooms; and they were to be i)reyed upon by all the 
agitated fluctuations of fear, of hope, and of plans 
formed only to be abandoned. 

What tragic adventures had these two elderly 
sovereigns experienced in the past few days, what 
fatigue, and what deprivations! 

As in the mad days of Louis XVI, as in the tur- 
bulent uprisings of the people in 1830, when Charles 
X made his luckier escape — happy he to have kejit 
his head on his royal shoulders! — so had this last of 
the Bourbon French kings heard the dread thunder 
of his people's cries roll up in threatening chorus 
below the Tuileries windows. 

With the ever-present memories before these two 
latter monarchs of how crowned heads are treated 
when France decides it is tired of crowns, when that 

IIG 




KIN(; LOI'lS IMIIMIM'K 
From a piiintinK by Wintcrlialtor 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

"madness of clioler" that leads to bloody revolutions 
lias gone through tlic blood of man, what shame 
was the specious Bourbon argument for any monarch 
to realize that flight, that an imperious longing for 
safety is no disgrace, but the natural, the paramount 
obsession? The scaffold which Louis XVI had 
mounted every succeeding sovereign saw as plainly 
as though he knew it still to be erect on the Place 
Louis XV. This was the awful specter that rose to 
take ominous shape each time the seditious cries 
rang loud of "A has le roi!" "Aux Tuileriesr ''Aux 
Tuileries!" 

This constitutional monarchy of Louis Philippe 
was to find no more stability than had the reign of 
Napoleonic ideals. The French nation had essayed 
already, in the four years since Waterloo, three sets 
of kingly rulers. The nation and the allies had, 
Ijcfore Waterloo, restored the brother of the martyr 
— Louis XVI — to the throne. Louis XVIII was re- 
stored to his people after the famous Hundred Days, 
reigning in all from 1815 to 1824. With the Second 
Restoration every one — the French nation, the allies, 
Ihigland, and even the king — felt secure. St. Helena 
could never give the world the surprise the island of 
Elba had furnished. Napoleon was far away. 
Europe could breathe freely. 

"The King of France may die, but he must not be 
ill," was the philosophic summing up of the knowl- 
edge Louis XVIII had gained, in his nine years' 
reign. He knew he was committing the sin of dying 

slowly, some months before the end came. 

9 117 



IIP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

"May Charles X take care of the crown for this 
child," said the expiring monarch on his death-bed. 
He could foresee, in the tragic murder of the Due du 
Berri, the little Due de Bordeaux's father, all the 
dangers that had opened up before the legitimate 
Bourbon dynasty. 

Charles X, his successor, took care chiefly of his 
own soul and of the church. Like certain more 
modern potentates, he felt assured of the guidance of 
the heavenly powers in assuming to reign auto- 
cratically. 

There were, alas! more mundane powers at work. 

''Nous dansons sur un volcmie'' ("We are dancing 
on the edge of a volcano") cried a certain Salvaudf, 
at a ball given by the Due d'Orleans. And the vol- 
cano burst forth presently, pouring its fiery flood 
against despotism, against Bourbon claims to "Za 
majorite, cest le roi."" The real majority soon dis- 
posed, by barriaides, by the popping off of guns, by 
the mighty strength of revolution, of the king who 
deemed himself superior to his people. 

After six short years of wearing of the crown 
Charles had insisted should be blessed by the Pope's 
nuncio at Rheims, Charles X had ceased to reign. 

Then came the turn of the Due d'Orleans — Louis 
Philippe. He was the head of the younger branch 
of the Bourbons. He had won out, against the 
Duchesse de Berri, the adventurous widow of the 
dead legitimate heir, and of the young Due de 
Bordeaux, his son and posthumous child. He had 
won, but if one must look at the end of a man's life 

118 



TPTE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

before one can call him happy, the story of the flight 
of Louis Philippe and the queen to Honfleur lifts the 
veil from the image of crowned happiness. 

After tlie oft-changed wearers of the French crown 
had vanished, the crown having been worn eighteen 
years by Louis Philippe, behold once more the Seine 
is to become the mise-en-sc^ne of a tragic episode 
in the fortunes of a French king. 



II 

In Paris, in this year of 1848, revolution was 
already stalking the streets. The still illusioned 
king in his palace thought to calm the popular mad- 
ness by signing scraps of paper. Concession after 
concession "to the people" having been made, Louis 
Philippe believed the wild fever in the veins of the 
revolutionaries would calm down. Each signature 
was, in reality, but the king's quicker signing of his 
own coming fall. 

Nothing more, it seemed to the king, was there 
left for him to concede; he had yielded all the power 
vested in him to those clamoring for still more. 

"After the review," ^ Monsieur Lenotre tells us, 
in his graphic recital of those last days of the king 
in France, "the king, taking refuge in his study, 
in the lower story of the Tuileries, sank into an arm- 
chair. There he remained, his hand on his forehead; 
the queen and the princesses were in the adjoining 

^ The king had held a review of troops in the Place du Carrousel. 

119 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

salon. In low tones they whispered, 'What is to be 
done?' No one knows; every one waits." 

PoHtieians, high dignitaries, go and come; they 
form groups; Thiers, Lamoriciere, Odilion Barrot, 
Remusat, Cremieiix, the Marechaiix Gerard, Bii- 
geaud, Soult — every one is silent. They await the 
firing that is coming nearer and nearer. 

Emile de Girardin, who comes up from the street, 
urges the king to abdicate in favor of his grandson, 
under the regency of the Duchesse d'Orleans. 

The princess throws herself on her knees and im- 
plores her father-in-law to resist a little longer. The 
queen sobs: 

"No, no, my friend, you will not do that! Better 
to die than to go out of that door!" 

The Due de Montpensier, on the contrary, counsels 
immediate abdication. 

The old gentleman, distracted, undecided, of a 
dozen minds, asks counsel of all those about him, 
with his anxious eyes: 

"Is it true that all defense is impossible.'^" 

"Impossible!" is the implacable reply from many 
voices. 

Then, stretching his hand toward his desk, Louis 
Philippe proceeds, with deliberation, to arrange his 
paper and his pen. 

"Faster! Faster!" cry the impatient ones about 
him. 

"Gentlemen, I am hurrying as fast as I can." 

"Sire," interrupted the Due de Montpensier, "I 
implore you to hurry!" 

120 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

"I have always written slowly — this is not the 
moment to change my habits." 

In a firm hand, in large letters, the king traced the 
lines : 

I abdicate this crown that the will of the nation had placed 
upon my head in favor of my grandson the Comte de Paris. 
May he succeed in the great task wliich this day is imposed 
on him. 

This 24th of February, 1848. 

Louis Philippe. 

The paper was all but torn out of the now ex- 
king's hands. In the twinkling of an eye, as it 
must have seemed to those of the royal family who 
were still under the spasm of their conflicting emo- 
tions, the palace room was emptied. So quick are 
courtiers to feel the receding tide of royal favor — 
so sensitive to the glacial touch of windy danger! 

Meanwhile, in the king's stables, then situated 
in the rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre,^ where now we 
find the gardens of the Carrousel, postilions, grooms, 
and stablemen were in the throes of the greatest 
excitement. Orders had been given to have the 
royal carriages made ready. "Every possible com- 
fort and traveling commodity must be thought of," 
were the orders; "each carriage must be fitted out 
for a journey of several days." 

The crowd of grooms and stablemen were told 
that the royal family were to spent several days at 
Saint-Cloud. 

With not undue haste, and with that care and 

^ Leuolre, Les Derniers Jours, elc. 

121 



Ur THE SEINE TO TTTl-: 1*. ATTT.EFIELDS 

precision due to the high class of tliese aristocratic 
veliic'kvs, tlie "Saverne," the king's own i)roUeted 
carriage, as well as the imposing "INIoselle," and the 
"Taniise," for the i)rinee and princesses, wilh a 
whole train of less(>r cal(\'}ics with snch resonnd- 
ing names as "Seine-Infrrlcure," "L'ltalieniie," *' La 
Frangaise," "Ceres," "JNIinerve" lor royal and 
conrt carriages, as laic as 184S, were institntions on 
])onderons wheels, nmeh to he revered, solenndy 
baptized, answiM'ing to their aiignst names — these 
slo\v-nio\'ing, showy vehicles were being made ready. 
Enongli horses for a king's jonrney were not too 
speedily harnessed. There had lo be eight for I he 
king's own carriage, six for the jirinces' carriages 
and for the maids of honor, while other conrt func- 
tionaries had to put up with two steinls. 

In the ears of the hostlers, as in those of the 
gandily costumed i)oslilions, impatiently tapping 
their bright riding-boots with their gold-mounted 
whips, there rose up from the IMace du Carrousel 
the welcoming shouts ol' the populace; they knew 
that the king was holding the rev'iew of his troops. 
Neither troops, nor postilions, nor hostlers, nor all 
Paris knew it to be I he last review to be held by a 
strictly French legilimate king. 

Hairon, a young i)ickeerer, resplendent in his 
royal scarlets, reassured by this ovation, led the 
way; he sat his saddle as firndy as though cast in 
bronze on one of the eight hors(\s drawing the king's 
carriage. 

Tlu> great gates of the slables flew oi)en, Tlu> long 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

line of the superb carriages followed one after the 
other. The street was then filled with the moving 
mass of color, with the noise of clanking bits, of 
clinking* silver resounding to the perfectly trained 
steps of the high-bred steeds. The few people about 
stared, as for eighteen years they had stared, half 
in awe, half in delight — eyes dazed with the splendor 
of the show — yet half hating it all, since kings were 
begiiming it was felt, to cost too much, and they 
governed so little! 

All at once something happened! At a turn in 
the street a band of men, only twenty-five, in hiding, 
sprang forward. Raising their guns, they fired. 
Four horses fell, a stampede ensued, the crowd 
gathered, postilions scattered; one of the latter who 
ran for his life? was caught, killed, stripped, and left 
for dead. This was the touch of human bestiality 
that others had been waiting for to begin their own 
orgy of destruction. 

Two of the famous carriages — famous indeed since 
their very names come down to us — the "Moselle" 
and "Saverne," were to end their career in flames. 
Straw was found somewhere, was rolled under the 
splendid vehicles, and crack ! crack ! sizzling, the fiery 
spirals ran up, caught painted wood, emblazoned 
crowns, padded interiors, velvet cushions, and silk 
curtains, and a few moments later all that was left 
of these gorgeous vehicles was a mass of charred re- 
mains, the smoking ashes of royal magnificence any 
gamin might have stooped to handle, as he cried, 
*'Cr6 Dieu — ga piquel" 

123 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

III 

The king, meanwhile, surrounded by his family, 
and by the three friends who had remained faitliful 
to him — by Lastyrie, Cremieux, and Montalivet — 
was listening, in a maze, to words that seemed to 
have no meaning for him. Having signed the fatal 
paper, all power of action seemed to have been 
suspended. 

"You must fly, you must fly!" Cremieux w\as 
crying. The king still stared. 

" Indeed — you must go — and quickly !" This time 
the king understood. The clamor beneath the win- 
dows — the cries, shouts, angry yells — that ominous, 
mounting wave of discord of a people enraged, of 
bestiality at the breaking-point — yes, at last the 
king understood. 

With a single gesture he removed his general's 
hat, the queen instinctively tearing off decorations, 
gold braid, and epaulets. A large cloak and a low 
crush hat were handed him. The king had presence 
of mind enough to clutch a portfolio beside him, on 
the table; and he passed another, one crammed with 
papers, to his valet. A sign to his wife, whom some 
of those about had garbed for her setting forth, and 
then the strange group was out in the Tuileries 
gardens. 

Those of us who stroll, on a fine day, from the 
flower-full gardens opposite the flamboyant statue 
of Gambetta do not count the distance nor the time 
it takes to reach the great gates that, wide open 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KINCx AND A QUEEN 

now, guard these charming Tiiileries, tree-domed 
alleys. But — we were not fljnng for our lives! We 
were not hearing the shouts and cries in our ears of 
an infuriated crowd. We were not shivering as the 
growling thunder of sedition, of insurrection, rolled 
nearer and nearer. Were those about one crying, "Be 
quick! be quick!" while the very air seemed electri- 
fied with the lightning darts of death-dealing men- 
ace — then, hurry, press, rush as one might, and the 
way down those long alleys, the following of the 
curves of the Bassin — where one stops nowadays to 
watch the golden-haired children launch their mimic, 
white-winged fleet — ah me! but every step would 
seem to be leaden and one's very breath would fail 
one. 

This was the hard journey King Louis Philippe 
found before him, once he had left the comparative 
safety of the Tuileries Palace walls. With his aged 
wife clinging to his arm, his children and grand- 
children hurrying their footsteps, the faithful valet, 
Thuret, bending under the weight of the huge port- 
folio; with the devoted friends and followers, 
Cremieux, General Dumas, and, to the glory of art 
be it recorded also, Ary Scheffer — this last remnant of 
the Bourbon courts directed its agitated flight 
toward the Place de la Concorde. 

Once outside the gates, the entire cortege came to a 
startled, to an affrighted standstill. 

Where were the royal carriages? Where were the 
resplendent "Saverne," the "Moselle," and the 
"Tamise"? 

125 



UP TIIK SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

In li(ni of lliosc veliiclos promising speedy safety, 
a screaming crowd was pushing, hustling, cHmhing — it 
was even .'ittempling to rush the ten-aces. 

The distract (>d fugitives looked about, staring in 
lielpk\ss dismay. At last they gave a sigh of relief. 
Sa.h';ition was in sight. A few brave battalions, 
fully armed, were now surrounding the royal i)arty. 
Two small broughams di-awn each by a singh; horse 
were being valianlly protected l)y these faithful 
troops. Into the first the old king thrust liis wife, 
Marie Amelie, who was at the faint ing-j)oint. The 
king jumped in after her, shutting the door with 
surprising vigor. Into tlie second carriage the 
Duchesse d'Orleans and lier three children crowded 
as best they could. 

The royal party was off. 

Before the litlle crowd whicli had assembled, 
(•urious-eyed, wondering wlio thtse affrighted, ex- 
cited-looking people miglit be — before the crowd had 
had time to recognize in this elderly, careworn 
couple their own king and queen of exactly half an 
hour ago, the two carriages, now escorted by a com- 
pany of mounted troops, were quickly whirling 
along the Cours la Bciue. 

The Chateau de Sainl -Cloud was to be the first halt 
in this melanclioly flight. 



IV 

The king's plan was to make a hasty rush for the 
Palace of Saint-Cloutl. Ilis true objective would be 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

the Chateau d'Eu, he had pompously announced, it 
being one of the Orleans private and personal pos- 
sessions. In this chateau the old king had decided 
that he and his dear consort might comfortably 
establish themselves, might settle down, and await 
the inevitable end which even kingship could not 
retard — so little had the lesson taught by revolution- 
ary cries, seditious shouts, and a frenzied and 
maddened populace, ripe for any mischief, been 
heeded. The Bourbon barrier of imperial impene- 
trability to any view or unpleasant fact was still 
thick and high, barring the way to enlightenment, as 
it had l)een in the old age of Louis XIV. 

Louis Philippe still thought imperially. The sor- 
did, practical matters which might make living on a 
princely scale more or less of a daily vexatious 
problem seemed never to have occurred to him. In 
their hurried departure the king had royally for- 
gotten four hundred thousand francs left in his desk, 
at the Tuileries Palace. This sum might have made 
residence in any chateau fairly comfortable for at 
least a few weeks — with economy — and Louis 
Philippe was noted for an almost Norman talent for 
thrift. 

Neither the halt at Saint-Cloud nor the residence 
at Eu was to come to pass. The royal fugitives 
were urged to hasten on to Dreux. At this latter 
town, it was urged, the king and queen would find 
themselves also in their own domain, since a large 
part of Dreux and its great forests were then part 
of the Orleans estates. 

127 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

The journey thither was enhvened by an attempt 
of the king to effect a disguise. He took off his false 
toupet, drew over his head and forehead a black 
silk cap, and, on this eventful day, not having been 
shaved, his altered appearance seemed to satisfy 
even the anxious, agitated queen. She exj)rcssed her 
approval by the gratifying announcement: 

"You look a hundred years old!" 

At Dreux the party luilted. At ten at night the 
weary fugitives entered the old town that is even 
in our day the Saint-Denis, tlie tomb of the royal 
Orleans family. Only six weeks before the king's 
beloved sister Adelaide, the political head of the 
family, had been laid at rest in the vast family vaidt. 

Instead of resting, the pious queen spent her hours 
of respite from dreaded recognition, from taunting, 
cruel-faced crowds, on her knees. Her i>rayers for 
safety, for the king's quick delivery from these haunt- 
ing specters of fear, were lifted to heaven beside the 
dead of her race. 

The king, on the contrary, spent half his night 
in the kingly fashion of kings not yet used to their 
fallen state. Surprised by "an uncouth fear," he 
was nervously clamoring for his money, his comforts, 
and his suite; yet Louis Phili})pe, as prince, had had 
an apprenticeship as a fugitive and as an exile. 
Eighteen years of palace luxuries, however, and the 
glory of at last wearing a crown, even if, in the strict 
sense of the word, Louis Philippe had not ruled 
nor had he really governed his people — this habit 
of wearing crowns and sitting on cushioned thrones 

12S 



THE ODYSSF.Y O'F A KING AND A QUEEN 

seems to be a habit as difficult to break as though 
it were a vice. 



On awakening the following morning, after their 
scant hours of rest, a fresh disaster confronted the 
king and queen. 

The Republic had been proclaimed in Paris! 

Then, since the young Comte de Paris had not 
been acclaimed as king under the regency of the 
Duchesse d»Orleans, his mother, where was the young 
king? What had become of the duchesse and her 
sons? Here was an eating anxiety added to the grave 
uncertainty as to whether or no, now, with a revo- 
lution in actual being, the Republic already a cer- 
tainty, whether escape would be a feasible under- 
taking. 

It was some days before the full knowledge of all 
that happened to the lovely young duchesse and 
her children was known either to France or to the 
duchesse's royal father- and mother-in-law. 

In the building we now know as the Chambre 
des Deputes, fronting the Place de la Concorde, the 
Duchesse d'Orleans had been passing through her 
own tragic hour. She had led thither her two sons, 
the Due de Berri and the Due de Chartres, instead 
of following the king and queen. 

Her brother-in-law, the Due de Nemours, faithful 
to the guardianship of the little children of his dead 
brotlier, was beside his courageous sister-in-law. 

This impetuous flight of the duchesse with her 

129 



vv TUK si:im: io 'iino battlefields 

clnldirn lo llio Corps L^^gislnlil' lo s;ivo llic crown, 
in I lie Iu)j)c' IIkiI I lie jxTson Jind presence of (he lieir 
npi>ariMil -lliis cliild ol' six- nii^lil ap])enl lo llie 
rc>|)r(>s(Milalives of ilie nulion, niiuhl slir pal riot ic 
(Mnolionalisni, lias heen (ii'anialiealiy described by 
Laniarline: ' 

"The large door lacing the Irihnne on a level willi 
(he liighesl seats of the hall — this door o})ened. A 
woman api)eared — it is I he Duchesse d'Orleans. 
She is <lress(>d in niovuniiig. Her half-n])lifl((l veil 
rt>veals a face" anIiosc youih and heanl y are enhanced 
by her mingled t>molions and \\vv sadness. She liolds 
the yonng king, who sLnmbles as he mounts the 
steps, in lier right hand, and in her lefl she grasps 
(he Hi lie Due de Chart res — children lo whom this 
calaslroplu^ pr(\senls ilself as a spechicle. . . . Some 
geiuM-als in uniform, some odieers of the national 
guard, descend in the wake of the ])riucess. She 
salutes with linn'd grace the motionless assembly; 
she seats herself, l)et ween Iier two chihlren, below the 
tribune, imiocent victims l)cfore a supreme court 
which has come lo hear this ])lea.diug of the cause of 
royally. Al this moment this cause is alrcaily won 
in the eyes ami hearts of all." 

The final verdict, however, was the dealhdvuell of 
llu> ()rl(>aus dyuasly. "Too late, loo late!" rang out 
the hiiimidiant voice of j)opular government. 

As soon as the do()m of the crown was sounded, 
the duchesse, the Due de Nemours, and the chilchnMi 
made a. liaslx retreat IVom \\\v Corps Lcgislatif. 

' l.;imjirtiiit', luioliitioii, ISIS. 

i;u) 



Tin: ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

Tlioy ofTccted their escape; but their whereabouts 
renuiiued a mystery for some time. 



VI 

On leaniiii^' llic Uepublic luul b(x*u dcelared, 
Louis Pliilii)i)e was at hist convinced that tlie king- 
sliip of his family was at an end. Stunned, amazed, 
sluix'fied as are the aged nn(h'r Jiiiy sud(k'n blow — 
and of blows in twenly-four hours tlicre had been 
enough to have stricken down youtJi and vigor — the 
king cried, "It is like Cliarles X, only worse!" 

The calami lies that hiipjXMi to ourselves are always 
worse Ihan ihose which befall our l)rotlier. 

Once more the road of exile must be trod. Hasty 
consnllalions wilJi the few counselors aboiiL him 
finally resulted in the coast of Normandy being 
decided upon. England loomed large as the true 
gold of safely. 

Once more the fugitives nnist take seals in the 
royal carriage wliieii had l)rought them from Ver- 
sailles. The king and queen, it was decided, were now 
to travel under the name of M. and Mme. Le])run. 

Monsieur Mareehal, the loyal pnlf'cl of Dreux and 
a devoted Orleanist, acted in a truly royal manner. 
Six thousand bank-notes and six tliousand in silver 
.voM.v were given to the travelers. Not conlent with 
this proof of loyally, tJie brave man mounted the 
1k)X In'mself. He gave the order to the j)ostilions 
to take the "road to Anet." 

Anet! — what souvenirs had crowded the long 

lyi 



tJP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

journey. The Tiiilcries, Versailles, Trianon, Dreux 
— the last the se})iilcher of all the dead Orleanses; 
and now Anet, the beautiful chateau of Diane de 
Poitiers! Each palace and chateau recalled past 
dead and gone splendors. If imperial grandeur 
stars the road of great empires with palatial and 
architectural masterpieces, when kings are forced 
into exile such become oftentimes sinister sign-posts 
to [)oint derisively the way to safety. 

The drive from Diane's famous chateau and across 
the splendid forest of Dreux — the present property 
of the Orleans family, and their preferred hunting- 
ground — on to Evreux, was found to be both long 
and wearisome. 

At Evreux a dramatic incident occurred. The 
king was recognized. But the tragedy of capture 
was happily averted. Clamorous cries arose as the 
carriages approached Evreux. 

" Vive la Reforme! A has Louis Philijypc!" greeted 
the ears of the fugitives. It was market-day. Curi- 
ous eyes peered into the great lumbering vehicle. 
Whispers, then a loud-tongued voice shouted: "C^est 
Louis! Cest le roi!"" And a peasant, having recog- 
nized the king, ran to find a gendarme to arrest him. 

The postilion dug his sjjurs deep into the horses' 
sides. Springing forward, dashing into a gallop, the 
heavy vehicle, with the betraying jingle of chains 
rattling, of wheels grinding deep into the rough 
roads, and the carriage was whirled, by the horses* 
speed, through the dazed crowd before the gendarme 
or peasants could stop the flight. 

1U2 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

Once beyond the town, the fugitives and tlicir 
escorts sank back among tbe cusbions, their breatb 
quick on tbe bp, as tbey reabzed the gravity of the 
danger tbey had escaped. This incident was the 
first warning of the more than probable fate that 
awaited the Idng were be and the queen to fall into 
revolutionary hands. 

Louis Pbilipi)e, having usurped the rights of the 
elder branch of tbe Boiu'bons to tbe throne in the 
person of the Due de Bordeaux — grandson of Charles 
X — and having held the throne as a constitutional 
Idng, establishing a "citizen monarchy," and, there- 
fore, also the royal creature himself of a virtual 
revolution, of a coup d'etat, had doubtless felt him- 
self safeguarded from revolutionary violence. He was 
to learn the age-long temper of a populace and people 
when tbey had once tasted of the wine of so-called 
liberty. He who sits in the seats of the mighty 
represents power, authority, tyranny. His head must 
be tbe first bead to fall. 

With the force of this fact finally borne in upon 
him, Louis Philippe, for the remainder of tbe 
fearsome journey, assembled his powers of will, 
fronting danger with calmer resourcefulness, since at 
last he had grasped tbe awful fact that he and his 
dear wife were in reality flying for their very lives. 

This first serious-visaged danger behind them, 
the question that arose, once they were abroad upon 
the highroad, with the quick midwinter night closing 
in about them, was: where should tbey, where could 
they, seek shelter for tbe night.'^ 

10 133 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Again Monsieur Marechal proved his ability to 
rescue royalty in distress. He bethought him of a 
chateau three miles from town belonging, happily, 
to Monsieur Duvilliers, who was, or who had been, 
most fortunately, Tntendant dii Roi. His loyalty, 
therefore, could be counted upon. 

Turning into the lane leading to the chateau, all 
was dark. The hopes of the travelers sank to zero- 
point. Lights, however, were soon seen to glimmer 
from a farm-house within the grounds. The jaded 
horses dragged the heavy carriage to the farm door. 
Monsieur Marechel alighted, confronting the burly 
form of the farmer. 

On learning what was demanded of him, Bertrand, 
the stanch defender of the chateau's treasures, 
woidd hear of no intrusion of strangers within its 
precincts. LTseless were the arguments, enforced by 
good weight of financial rewards, presented to him. 
No! No! '^Non, non et non. Monsieur — my master 
is absent. I have orders; I am the guardian here; I 
must obey my instructions." 

Was it the queen's drawn, pale face, her timid, 
imploring ej'es that the flare of the lanterns lit up.'' 
Was it the look of utter exhaustion on these two 
worn and weary elderly faces that softened Ber- 
trand the farmer's stern resolution? 

This glimpse of Monsieur Marcchal's two 
"friends" more than corroborated the prefet's 
touching appeal. 

"You see — this lady and gentleman — they can 
go no farther." 

134 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

A large-roomed salle in the old farm-house; a 
blazing fire in the deep chimney; the appetizing smell 
of onions; and at a long, wide table plowmen, dairy- 
maids, and grooms seated, in silence now, their 
clear eyes staring at the new-comers — such was the 
scene that was presented to the eyes of the king and 
queen on entering the great room. 

In his plain, hearty, rustic fashion, now that 
these two rather appealingly weary travelers were 
under his roof — were his guests — Bertrand, as host, 
proved his kindly nature. 

"Do you like onion soup.^" he asked, smilingly, 
of the strange-looking, elderly gentleman, who 
seemed to have no use for his own hands, since the 
valet unljuttoned his cloak, even took off his hat, 
and, in performing these duties, showed his master 
an extraordinary degree of deference. Curiously 
attired as he was, the old gentleman must be a 
somebody, since even Monsieur Marechal gave him 
the pas, bowing low as he seated him at the table. 

Surely, the quick-witted farmer summarized, 
though he was acting contrary to orders, his action 
in admitting these strangers would not be counted 
against him by his master. They were "quality," 
at any rate; Bertrand knew people of rank at sight 
as well as any one. Their manners were enough to 
mark them as belonging — who knows.'^ Perhaps to 
the court, their voices were so low and their words 
so beautifully said. Now Madame was getting 
warmer and had eaten something, one could see 
plainly what a beauty she must have been, "Elle a> 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

de la race, cette-ld," must have passed through the 
farmer's mind. 

And the achingly weary lady who *'may have been 
of a great race" was, in reahty, eating Httle or 
nothing. She was too spent by the emotions 
experienced in the hist day and night for this rude, 
country fare to prove tempting. 

Only yesterday, at this same hour, in the magnif- 
icent, gilded Tuileries Galerie de Diane, there had 
been spread the superb royal feast called " le diner du 
roi.'" Above the glistening silver, the spotless 
linen, the i)riceless Sevres china, and the decoration 
of costly flowers there rose those other lovely flow- 
ers, "the children's charming heads grouped above 
the splendid board." ^ 

In twenty-four hours there had come this seem- 
ingly unbelievable, this fantastic, turn in fortune's 
wheel. Here were the king and queen seated side 
by side with these farm-hands, and with their own 
serving-man — glad of the protection offered by these 
humble folk, glad of the safety under tlie roof of 
this farm-house, glad of the fragrant onion soup! 

The king, who liked onion soup, was greedily 
satisfying his hunger. The queen, meanwhile, had 
time, through her gentle, though tired, eyes and her 
not too keenly alert mind, to note vaguely the amaz- 
ingly strange customs of those she was so certain 
only a Bourbon could rightly govern. 

Each plowman, dairymaid, and hostler, she ob- 
served, held out his or her plate, in turn. Each 

» Lenotro, Leu Dmiicrs Jours, etc. 

130 



TIIJ5 ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

received a portion of the steaming soup good enough 
for royalty, of a piece of cold meat, and of an ome- 
let. Then there followed a great clinking of knives 
and spoons. Peasant-like, there was no conversa- 
tion. The eating of supper after the hard day's 
toil was too serious a matter to be interrupted by 
idle talk. 

It all seemed right enough, since such were the 
customs and habils of this world that really didn't 
count, except in so far as it furnished revenue, or 
when it dared to lift its insolent voice and shout: "A 
mort! A mod! A has Ic roif 

Simple and kindly as the lowly creatures now 
seemed, grouped about this evening meal, they were 
really brutes — and monsters, it appeared. Even a 
gentle lady, and Marie Amelie was gentle — she 
having been born a princess, could not be supposed, 
in tliat mid-nineteenth century, to possess sufficient 
elasticity of sympathy to bridge the chasm separating 
"the people" from their appointed — always by the 
will of God — from their appointed rulers. 

How could a royal mind be open to understand, 
to see to the roots of right and wrong, to comprehend 
this wide-spread protest of a people against the evils 
of a misgoverned, of a so-called "constitutional 
government"? Had Louis Philippe been able to 
remount his throne, the lesson that might have 
taught him certain facts about the world he was sup- 
posed to govern would have availed naught. He was 
a Bourbon. It was the will of God that the French 

peasant should bend double over the soil, should 

137 



UP THE SEINE '10 THE IJATTLEFlELDhj 

plow it, sow it, harvest it, so tliat Bourbons might 
rule over them in purple and fine linen. This taking 
the will of God for granted has cost several kings and 
emperors in our own day a greater surprise than even 
came to the Bourbons. 



VII 

It was only after the ending of the simple meal 
that the farmer Bertrand was informed who the 
guests were whom he had so reluctantly admitted. 

Bertrand, though inured to hardships and the 
t rials every farmer must face, had no nerves steeled 
for such surprises. He nearly fainted. On recover- 
ing his equilibrium, his clear, i)ractical brain devised 
a plan which all concerned deemed the best solution 
of the grave difficulty of passing through the now 
republican town of Evreux, after the alerte of the 
day before. 

"I'll take my big cart, the one I take to market — 
and my two best horses. All Evreux knows me — 
and the cart." And Bertrand added, he could 
promise to land the king at Ilonfleur that very same 
night, without relay of horses — "a matter of twenty- 
four leagues" — sixty-odd miles. Bertrand made 
this announcement with a reassuring certainty. He 
had the peasant's proper pride in his brave steeds 
and in the driving of his king to safety. What a 
tale to tell, as long as he lived, to his children and his 
children's children, but not now — later, when it 

would be safe. 

138 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

There was only one stumbling-block that barred 
the way to an assured success of the scheme. The 
king — yes, and Tliuret, the valet — Betrand could 
promise to pass both through the town. But the 
queen! — there lay the danger. Evreux would be 
curious as to the name and status of so aristocratic- 
looking a lady. The king, in his disguise — oh, he would 
be safe! He looked like any other old gentleman. 

The difficult decision, therefore, must be made. 
The poor old hunted king and his adoring wife 
must part. It would be but for a few hours. There was 
no hesitation on the part of the queen. To protect 
her idolized husband — and king — to what extremi- 
ties would not the self-sacrificing Marie Amelie 
have gone? The scaffold itself would have held no 
terrors for so pious, so self-obliterating a soul. 

Marie Amelie, it was therefore quickly decided, 
would proceed alone on her journey. This resolu- 
tion, surely, proved superb courage. Here was a 
lady to go through nearly a hundred kilometers of 
country, in a carriage that would draw every eye; 
through towns and villages already drunk with the 
fiery wine of supposed liberty, all of their lively, 
curious inhabitants already on the qui vive of excite- 
ment, tingling with the news of the attempted 
evasions of the king and queen; and every peasant 
and townsman hoping it would fall to his happy 
luck to catch a live king and queen and thus earn 
not only a nation's gratitude, but as well a sub- 
stantial reward. Dame! names had gone down into 
history for a far less glorious act. 

139 



UP TIl£ SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Possibly divining all this, INIarie Amelie went forth 
upon her journey as a pious and gentle-minded queen 
and lady should. She said her prayers and then 
mounted the high steps of the heavy vehicle with 
the dignity of a queen and the courage of a good 
Catholic. 

The king had started long before her. 

It was still night when he made his toilet. Once 
again lie donned his big spectacles, he pulled his 
black cap over his forehead and his coat collar up 
to his nose; then he seated himself beside Thuret, 
his valet, and was driven out into the dark lanes. 

No less a brilliant raconteur than Victor Hugo 
used to hold his audience captive with the dra- 
matic manner in which he narrated this drive from 
Evreux to Honfleur. Hugo had had the whole story 
from Thuret himself. 

On reaching Evreux the cart was stopped. A 
national guard, one created overnight, barred the 
way. He lifted curious, scrutinizing eyes to the man 
driving the cart and to his two passengers. In the 
cold, raw air of the February morning his voice 
sounded as though hoarsely croaking the knell of 
fate. 

"Hey! — hola! — whom have you here? It is said 
the king is trying to escape; that he's here- 
abouts — " 

"That's news, neighbor," dryly remarked Ber- 
trand. 

The swaying lantern now reached the farmer's 
calm, red face. 

140 




QUEEN MARIE-AMELIE 

From IV pnintiiiK l>.v Wintcrliiiltcr 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

"Tlcns, c't'st Loi, BerLraiul. I know lilni," cried 
the iii>i)arcnlly naive gnard to those about him. 
Then swiftly the man drew close to the cart-wheels to 
whisper, still more hoarsely, "I also know your pas- 
senger. Go quickly!" 

So there were still brave hearts beating under 
re])ublican uniforms. Once more the king could 
<Iraw his breath freely, could crawl into his coat for 
greater warmth, and summon further courage for 
the long journey. 

VIII 

All along that beautiful road you and I follow 
on our motor-trips from Paris into Normandy, 
through the upper plains of the Eure, through its 
wooded slopes, on to Thibouvilk -la-Riviere, where 
one turns from the Evreux national road to follow 
the vagal)ond river Risle — a river that would be 
counted but a stream in America — on and on the 
heavy peasant cart, with its heavy-hearted king as 
passenger, rolled. 

It was a drive tliat seemed endless. It was eleven 
o'clock at night before Thibouville-la-Rivicre could 
be reached. 

How favorite a route was th(^ following of the 

Risle Valley road for royalty in flight! Its essentially 

rustic character was one of the chief reasons of this 

choice. Along this country road one sees country 

sights. One passes Nornumdy thatched liouses 

that are still thatched, and not roofed with bright, 

iron tiles; there are peasant gardens, clambering 

m 



UP THE SEINi: TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

roses do Dijon, and Iiollyhocks as high as the hedges; 
and tliere are all the pleasant farm-house features 
of wandering cattle, meandering sheep, and flocks of 
geese and ducks solemnly waddling to the river, 
one of just the right size for a comfortable bath. 

At eleven o'clock at night, however, only the 
security and pastoral quiet were things to be thank- 
ful for. 

Port Audemer, the first large town on their route, 
the fugitive king could pass in comparative calm. 
Few were the lights in such towns in 1848, and fewer 
still those of its inhabitants abroad. 

Just beyond the town the queen's carriage passed 
the slower-going peasant cart. A sigh of relief must 
have been the mutual greeting of this king and 
queen who might not even salute the other on the 
open road. 

The faint, pale February sun broke timidly on 
the gloom of a dai*k morning when at seven o'clock 
a cart drawn by two weary, jaded horses pulled up 
in front of the small pavilion on the Upper Ilonfleur 
road, on the Cote-de-Grace. 

In one account of this odyssey of the king it is 
recorded that both king and queen alighted from 
the cart. Their joint appearance at the chateau 
gate, in whose inclosure was the unpretentious pavil- 
ion to which they sought admission, presujjposes 
the queen having abandoned her carriage. She may 
have changed along the road dose to Ilonfleur to 
take her place beside her husband in the cart. This 
version of the adventure seems probable in view of 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

the dan^XT of discovery as so sumptuous a vehicle as 
the carriage might have caused. An appearance in 
the Honfieur streets of a royal carriage covered with 
mud at seven in the morning could hardly be ex- 
plained on the ground of this excursion into Nor- 
mandy, in midwinter, being a mere pleasure trip. 

Even at seven in the morning the Norman towns- 
man's curiosity is wide awake. With certain rumors 
that were soon to be broad-spread, of a price on the 
king's head, even slower wits than keen-edged Nor- 
man brains would soon have traced the arrival of 
a royal carriage at a matutinal hour; of a sad-faced, 
aristocratic-nosed elderly lady as sole occupant of 
the vehicle; and her descen|: at an obscure pavilion, 
where she was joined by an aged-looking, fatigued 
monsieur, as being the right prey. 

The peasant's cart was the happily inspired 
camouflage. 

IX 

"The affairs of the heart cannot be paid." 
This was the farmer Bertrand's noble response 
when he was offered payment for the courageous 
undertaking of landing his king safely at Honfleur. 
He had risked his own life and also the loss of his 
horses; and to a farmer the latter would weigh 
almost as heavily in the balance of possible 
danger as the more serious ending of one's own 
existence. 

Bcrtrand, his future, his cart, and his horses fade 
into the mists of unwritten history. But his page 

143 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

in the annals of this adventure of a king's flight is 
a bright one. 

The days that followed were, like the nights, full 
of tortured anxiety for the king and queen. Nature 
appeared to have taken a hand in piling up obstacles 
and in increasing the difficulties of the attempt to 
reach the English coast. 

Tempests, raging seas, icy temperatures — such 
was the awesome weather that greeted the fugitives. 
The Seine was running its mad, midwinter course 
of fury; one might have thought the sea beyond 
Havre had human passions and unstrung nerves. 
There were passionate outbursts that flung their 
anger like blows across the broad mouth of the 
Seine. There could be no thought of crossing, even 
to Havre, in the teeth of such a gale. 

Rumors as sinister as the dread weather filled 
the Honfleur streets, crept up the Cote-de-Grace, 
penetrated stealthily through the tightly closed 
doors and narrow casements of the tiny pavilion. 

A severe order of the republican government had 
reached Normandy. The king and queen, it was 
known, had fled toward the coast. Their escape 
must be prevented. Any one harboring them must 
pay forfeit with his life. A price was set upon the 
king's head. 

This order was listened to in outward calm and 
with inward tremors by the fugitives. Immediate 
flight across the Channel became the more im- 
perative. 

One look across to Havre, from the heights of the 

144 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

chateau grounds, was enough to convince the most 
courageous among the party that the crossing from 
Honfleur was an impossibihty. No boat could run 
in the teeth of such weather. 

Trouville! Why not try Trouville? This sea- 
coast town was directly opposite Havre; the tidal 
changes that made the crossing via Honfleur uncer- 
tain and dangerous would not affect the more open 
sea-spaces fronting the Trouville beaches. 

It was decided to despatch Racine on a tour of 
investigation. He returned with great news. He 
had found a man, a sailor, who seemed sent by 
Providence. He was named Hallot; he had sailed 
on the Belle Poule, having served under the Prince 
de Joinville, the king's own son. Hallot had been 
among the "braves" who had brought Napoleon's 
remains from St. Helena to Paris. 

Hallot would lay down his life for his king. 

What was more to the point, he had arranged a 
seemingly perfect plan for facilitating the king's 
crossing over to England. He had found a sailor 
who would take Louis Philippe across to Havre. 

There was no time to be lost. Racine harnessed 
his one horse to a tiny cart, and off the king started 
for what he hoped was the end of his great adventure. 

In such a vehicle, confronting such winds and 
tempests, it took hours to reach Trouville. There 
was a dramatic meeting of the king with Hallot and 
the sailor who had sworn to convey his royal pas- 
sengers safely across the water. 

But the sea was raging; the waves were novr 

145 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

mountainous; no fisherman's boat could live in such 
angry waters. The project must be abandoned. 
The sailor, indeed, flatly refused to go. 

In view of this fresh setback, it was hastily de- 
cided, as on the morrow the sea might be calmer, 
that the king must remain overnight at Trouville. 
Broken now to meet any fate that might be meted 
out to him, Louis Philippe reluctantly acquiesced. 
He passed a night of terror that outfaced all possible 
discomfort, in a fisherman's miserable hut. It was 
already a whispered fact in Trouville that he had 
come to the town hoping to effect his escape to 
England. Orders had been given to search all the 
houses. The king, therefore, must be kept in 
strictest hiding; he must not even show himself at 
a window. 

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, a fisherman 
rushed in. They had been betrayed! In a moment 
the gendarmes would appear and the king would be 
taken. 

The king was pushed unceremoniously toward a 
back door of the hut. An unknown man was stand- 
ing in the door. The king drew back in affright. 
But the stranger announced in a whisper his fidelity. 
He begged his king to follow. He led Louis Philippe 
through Trouville's most tortuous streets. 

Stumbling, drenched with rain, forced to walk on 
and on, with the stinging hail beating against eyes 
and face, the two finally reached Touques, about 
two kilometers out of Trouville. There a char-d,- 
bauci was found awaiting the now exhausted fugi- 

146 



THE ODYSSEY OF A KING AND A QUEEN 

tive. It was the loyal mayor of Trouville himself 
whom the king must thank for thus leading him once 
more out of the jaws of a horrible fate. 

General de Rumigny and M. de Perthuis, the 
owner of the Cote-de-Grace chateau and pavilion, 
were now the king's companions to Honfleur. The 
road leading thither — the one from Touques — would 
offer greater security, it was decided, than the coast 
road, since it is inland, and, at night would be 
deserted. Through the darkness, the only fellow- 
travelers were the stinging wind and the pitiless 
rain. The night's adventure was not to end without 
one more test of the old king's powers of endurance. 
It was necessary, as a measure of greater safety, 
for the three travelers to mount the steep Cote-de- 
Grace on foot. 

On the arrival of the party, the king found his 
wife so overcome with delight at his return that 
she cried for joy. She gave a hurried account of her 
own four days' dreary experiences: she had seen no 
one; she had not dared even to open a window. She 
had tried to sew to calm her nerves. It was in 
prayer rather than in her needle that the queen 
had found relief from her heart-sickening anxiety. 

What was left of the night was spent in much- 
needed rest. 

The next morning fresh consultations were held. 
With the advent of M. de Perthuis, the owner 
of the chateau and pavilion, more vigorous measures 
were soon adopted and effected. 

It was learned that the Courrier — the Honfleur 

147 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

boat ferrying across to Havre — was !o leave tlvat 
very evening. Tlie (lei)arture of the king and tjiieen 
must not be delayed. Every moment might bring 
about tragic results. The order to watch for the 
royal fugitives was now gener.il; domiciliary visits 
woidd be made. The embarkation, therefore, must 
be most carefully i)lajined. 

1 1 was decided that the party shoidd be divided. 
1'he king, under tlie name of Sir AYilliam Smith, 
woidd board the vessel alone. Tlie queen, and after 
her M. dc Perthuis, and Thuret, tjie valet, would 
each cross the gang-plank leading to the boat 
sejiarately. The gloomy February twilight was 
friendly to the enterj)rise. Few were the lights in 
streets, docks, quays, or on boats in 1848. At last 
all were on board and the boat ])ushed off. As 
strangers to one another the party of four attracted 
no dangerous siu'veillance. 

Some traveling musicians were enlivening the trip 
across the still stormy waters. Their choice of a 
song was one hardly calculated to raise the spirits 
or solace the depressed minds of at least two on 
board who had experienced, for over a long week of 
suffering and fatigue, vicissitudes that might well 
have worn to shreds of nervous exhaustion even the 
very young. 

"0 Richard, man hoi 

L'uiiivcrs t'ohaiidoinidr' 

was the song that rang, in cracked high voices above 
the roaring seas. 

118 



TilE ODYSSEY OE A KING AND A QUEEN 

At Havre both voices and waters were stilled. In 
Ihe darkness it was easy to lead the strangers to 
the English ship, one that lay alongside. English 
loyalty, English synii)atliy for fallen grandeur, Eng- 
lish hospitality, met the uneasy fugitives at the very 
gang-plank of IJExpre.'>s. 'J'lie success of the final 
escai)e to safety was wholly due to Mi\ Jones, 
English vice-consul at Havre. 

As the ex-king and queen pass out into tlie misty 
night, and across the Channel to the white cliffs of 
England, even as the boat that conveys the royal 
pair merges into the thickness of the night, the 
Bourbon rule over France fades into a vanished 
dream. 



Note. — Sinro ihis chaplor was wrllhen, an article has appeared in 
La Rrrue de I'arin (I)ec<'iiilMr 1, 1!)1!>) in wliieli the former mayor of 
'iVouviilc ^'ivcs a graphic accoimL of llu; Iragie days pa.s.s<;d at, 'JVouvillc, 
when Uie kin;,' was awaiting his Iransporlalion to EnghincL TJiis 
recital (Hlfers in some sli^'iit i)ariicnlars willi I lie former liistorie render- 
ing. The king was more (•omforlabiy hxiged, mort; devoted friends 
an<l atlherents surrounded liim, than in the other poi)uhir version of 
his stay in 'J'rouvilh-. 

Th(; danger of discovery was, it appears, even greater tlian has been 
commonly .stat(.'<l, and the king's courage and calm during the hmg, 
anxious days and niglils were tlie marvel of those who helped to rescue 
him from a fate worse than death. 

11 



ciiArri:u ix 



UP THE SEINE 



THE actual starling' forlli from the Havre docks 
for our k)ii^' day's trip u]) I lie Soiuc had no such 
drauialic coniplicalions as allomkHl llic dci)arlurc 
of an cxiknl king and queen. There are inuneasured 
advantages in being a sinii)le citizen. Those who 
luive had Ihe hick to be born such, and yet dream of 
crowns, have ah'cady sokl to lieady ambition a i)or- 
tion of their birthright. 

Like Louis Phili])])e, our interest and his had, at 
k^ast, this in conuuon: would the tidal boat crossing 
from Ilonfleur to Havre be in time? 

On this j)articular morning the boat, its captain, 
or the tides seemed suddenly (Midowed with a con- 
science; instead of just missing the Havre steamer 
to Rouen, we should calcli it. 

The face of Havre ai)pea.rcul changed to us as we 
iieared its docks. It was rather we who looked at 
the city with new eyes. We now knew its history. 
Sj^mpathy came with understaudiug, and out of 
sympathy liking luul been born. '"Coinprcndrc—c'cd 
«////<'r," says a French writer. 

There was not a single, crazy, toi)pliug, gray- 
faced house lining the HaAie quays; nor was there 

150 



UP TTIK si: INK 

a single, hIjiUcmiiI.n' sli.ipc Ictuiiiig" foi lli from a sag- 
ging wiiidow-l'nuiKS huL ouch juul all were ciulowcd 
with a cojiaiii i)()ignant iiilcrcst. We were in Llie 
secret of their past. 

lOarly as was our start, Havre was in a gay niooa. 
The inner liarhor was tremendously alive. Boats 
were whistling, were tooting signals; decks were 
being scrubbed with a vigor born of the warm sun- 
rays; cries from fishing-boats to quays were an- 
swered by still louder cries; great shii)s were being 
towed out to sea with that air of state, as though 
this acceptance of aid fiom a fussy torpedo were the 
condescending grace ol' ])()wer to inferior craft who 
might be victims ol' a. tragic end, were the ships to 
put forth their full speed. 

We had not been steaming a quarter of an hour, 
and once again the beauty and charm of the water- 
way held us captive. Again the superb breadth of 
the Seine's great mouth; the brilliancy of its spar- 
kling surface; the moving boats, ships, a!id sailing 
craft held the eyes, enchaining sigJit and sense. 

We needed no fislierman's hoarse cry across the 
river, nor even the white company of the sea-gulls, 
to set for us the seal of contrast. The Normandy 
shores were now to be looked at from a river — as 
shores — a i)oint of view as changed as when a man 
views his wife in perspective, as it were, no longer his, 
})ut another's. 

There was now the loud tooting of shrill whistles; 
iherc was the sharp snort of llic boat's last blast of 
warning; and the onlookers jdong the gray (^uays were 

151 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

turning their backs on a show that was nearly over, 
for at Havre every departing boat, to a Havrais, 
promises the possible sport of a surprise, an incident, 
or the more exciting sensation of an accident. 

The boat at Rouen lay not far from the quay on 
which the Honfleur boat had landed us. 

Once aboard, the spirit of adventure seemed to 
spread its wings. We had the heady feeling of going 
off on a quest of new sights and scenes, new impres- 
sions and sensations. Going up to Rouen by boat 
on a voyage of the discovery of the Seine assumed the 
importance of a serious event. No one knew what 
might happen nor what unlooked-for novelties we 
might chance upon. 

We were not alone in considering the starting forth 
on this voyage a matter of consequence. Our fellow- 
passengers had the serious air of those who were 
setting forth on a lengthy journey. There were 
those who showed signs of having slept ill; others 
were unnaturally gay; luncheon - baskets were 
brought on board with the care one might bestow on 
a nursing infant; and the choice of seat and place on 
deck was gravely discussed by voices raised in heated 
dispute. 

The scenes of parting, on the quays, were charac- 
teristic of French love and delight in making the 
most of an exciting moment. There were tender 
embraces, resounding kisses were interchanged, loud 
clappings were given to shoulders or back, and there 
were admonitions all could hear, "not to sit in a 
draught," "to be sure to protect one's ears, the winds 

152 



UP THE SEINE 

are so high along the river!" and "to send post- 
cards!'* 

One could be quite positive certain changes in 
wills must have been made overnight. For no 
Frenchman goes forth on a day's journey without 
maiding sure his house is in order. To undertake any 
journey is always a matter of grave consideration 
in France. 

The boat was sUpping out from the harbor. We 
were off. 

As we rounded the harbor pier-heads, once more 
the splendor of the great outlook, over the Channel, 
the Seine's great mouth, the shrouded city and the 
tender greens of the opposite coast surprised and 
delighted the eye. Once more we were a part of 
the water-world, off on a voyage of adventure. 

Harfleur's spire, a few miles along the shore, to the 
left, was our first discovery. 

Seen from the boat's deck, the town showed clus- 
ters of houses above whose roofs, lancelike, Saint- 
Martin's famous Gothic spire showed its gray lace- 
work against the morning's blues. 

Harfleur and Honfleur have stared at each other 
across the Seine, like two jealous women, for long 
centuries. Harfleur also has had its story of ro- 
mance, its moment of glow and power, and its 
tragedy of semi-extinction. Second only in im- 
portance to Honfleur, its rival, as the second port of 
northern France, until Havre rose to extinguish 
both, Harfleur had riches enough to tempt both 
Norman pirates and English conquerors. 

153 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

William II of Germany must have remembered 
Ileiiri V's methods of earrying off valuable human 
booty to enrich his own land. 

In the siege by which the English king captured 
Harfleur, after forty days of heroic resistance, sea- 
power played its great, effective game. While 
Harfleur could draw provisions from the interior, 
Henry had behind him all England as a storehouse. 

The conditions imposed on Harfleur, after her 
capitulation, were as hard and as cruel as have been 
those the world has been crying out against in our 
recent war. The conqueror wanted those stout- 
hearted Ilarfleurais to blood his own England. 
Above all, he proposed there should be no further 
breeding of heroes in the Norman town. Sixteen 
hundred of the best families of Harfleur were car- 
ried oft' to England, ^^'ith only "a portion of their 
clothing and five sols."" 

Harfleur in its now tranquil aspect appears to 
have forgotten its tragic epoch. France itself, like 
all excitable, imaginative nations, easily forgets. 
The very climate bids one to believe in the best. 
Once a danger past, and a Frencliman is prone to fall 
into the optimistic error that, since lightning never 
strikes twice in the same place, the next bolt from 
tlie blue will pass him by. 

n 

The Seine had suddenly narrowed. We were now 
clearly in the true river. The uprising chalk cliffs, 

154 




THE \WAAj TOWKU (IF HAUFLKUK IN NORMANDY 



UP THE SEINE 

showing their white face, on our left, were in sharp 
contrast to the great stretches of green fields, 
])eo})Iecl with cattk% and the long lines of tree- 
domed ehns on the other. 

Close to the water's edge there ran a long terrace. 
Above the terrace there is still pointed out by the 
guides and historians a chateau whose story has 
two women for ils heroines. This chateau is built 
over or near the site of the former abbaye of Gres- 
tain. In this abbaye one woman was buried whose 
history had a certain analogy to that of her sister 
in sin — yet what a moral chasm separates the two ! 

Arlette, proud mistress of Robert the Devil, proud 
mother of William the Conqueror, who went to 
her undoing with the port and bearing of a queen^ 
though but a tanner's daughter, was buried in the 
abbaye. 

Lovely La Valliere spent a briefer time at the 
chateau. Her incomparably beautiful blue eyes have 
looked across these waters as do we; her delicate 
delight in lovely things must have joyed in this 
summer sea, in this brilliantly colored river, in the 
stately hills, and in these dazzlingly white cliffs. 
La Valliere who was "ashamed of being Louis XIV's 
mistress, ashamed of being a mother, ashamed of 
being a duchess" — what a development of sensi- 
bility in six centuries ! It is true it took six centuries 
to develop this delicacy of feeling. 

A few mik\s beyond the abbaye, above a steep 
cliff, a collection of noble ruins and stately buildings 
arrests the eye. A Norman keep, separate, ivy- 

155 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

garlanded, guards the cliffs to the east; a long 
chfiteau, of later date, with wide-open windows to 
prove life is still being lived in this grand old sanct- 
uary of heroic deeds, and now to the west another 
tower of defense is descried. These majestic build- 
ings must have their story to tell. 

This Chateau of Tankerville, indeed, is as old as 
France, older than this land which, when the first 
defenses above on the cliff were built, was Normandy 
and not yet France. You must go to technical books 
on the history of military fortresses to learn all the 
wonders of this outpost of defense called Tanker- 
ville. They will tell you that "the ensemble of the 
couriines and the towers composing tlie fortress fol- 
lowed the triangular plan of the cliff's plateau — a 
plan which suggests the conclusion the fortress was 
erected at a single stroke." 

It is certain there are portions of the building 
which may be traced to the eleventh, others to the 
thirteenth, while still others were built as late as the 
sixteenth century. 

The story of those who have lived, dreamed, 

loved, gone forth to die, or returned to enjoy the 

rewards of noble deeds and splendid adventures — 

this story of a great family should fill, not a page, 

but a volume. "Whoever formerly mentioned a 

Comte de Tankerville named also a Constable of 

Normandy. In every army of the Middle Ages, as 

well as in the councils of the kings, you would find 

a Tankerville. They were at Palestine as they were 

at Poitiers and Azincourt." 

156 



UP THE SEINE 

"In these walls that seem to defy the centuries, 
between these two ruined towers, on this magnificent 
terrace that appears to lose itself in the sky; on the 
edge of these menacing cliffs, under these old oaks 
which have resisted to all the tempests of earth and 
heaven, there have passed, there have been drawn 
by all the magic power of glory, of ambition, of love, 
the Comtes of Mehm, of Tankerville, of Montgom- 
ery, the Dunois, the Longuevilles, the d'Harcourts, 
and the Montmorency s.'* Jules Janin's burst of elo- 
quence ends in a triumphal blast, "Assuredly the 
shores of the Rhine do not carry nobler stones nor 
more illustrious ruins." 

It is indeed impossible to look up at those cliffs, 
thus nobly crowned, and not feel the thrill communi- 
cated by so brave a record. What modern work of 
fiction could equal the human documents to be torn 
from the annals of these nine centuries of heroic 
achievement? 

Even as our boat sweeps us on, all too swiftly, so 
docs history, it appears to me, slur the very pages 
we should con with far more passionate interest 
than a mere recital of dates and battles. To learn, 
for example, what were the lives of those countesses 
left at home when their lords went off crusading; 
what their occupations, their real loves, their chosen 
amusements — how would such a veracious account 
light up for us the dimmed mists of medieval ex- 
istences! To follow the political, social, and mili- 
tary changes which those keeps have outlined from 

the Crusades to the Revolution, one would have tO 

157 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

plunge deep into the wliole history of France. Even 
then, after serious study, the real story of the owners 
of Tankerville could be but guessed at; their true 
lives, like those who peopled the dark chambers 
of the ouhlieUes, still shown, are an unwritten page, 
a forgotten mystery. 

Such a superb mass of feudal and Renaissance 
structures tempts one to evoke, at least, a single 
scene of the dimly lighted medieval life, to dress it, 
and to decorate it. 

One need not be endowed with the imagination of 
a poet or of a scene-maker to image the drift toward 
the terrace of a young and lovely Comtesse de 
Tankerville. She would send her gaze up and down 
the long reaches of the Seine; she might hope for a 
sail to promise news of a husband I3ursuing the one 
business, save the chase, a noble of that day could 
engage in — her comte would be at war or crusading. 
In the latter case, having started, as he supposed, to 
regain the Holy Sepulcher, in reality he had gone 
forth on the journey of adventure that made the 
Crusades the great fashion of those far-away cen- 
turies. 

Then, as now, the Lady of Tankerville would see 
the same magic beauty before her as we are looking 
out upon; she would see this river of light, taking a 
hundred shades at noon, at dawn, at twilight; there 
would be the same poplars, slightly shivering in the 
summer wind; there would be the ruddy eartli, 
across the cliff to her right, a flame lighting up the 
still landscape; and there would be the forests, dark, 

158 



UP THE SEINE 

green, interminable, riding up to the skies. The 
lady, quivering like the poplars, might shiver in her 
turn, and., seeing no sail, she would turn to seek her 
rose-garden, hidden jealously behind the frowning 
Norman keep. Her ladies would be there, to tempt 
her to forget; one would hand her her tapestry- 
frame; another would suggest a reading aloud from 
Le Roman dii Rou: but, if the right page were in 
the circle, it would be his voice that would sing the 
love-song a passing troubadour had warbled but a 
few nights before in the great chateau hall. The 
page would never consider any of the charms of his 
adored mistress's beauty in the least diminished 
because, though gowned, girdled, and bejeweled 
like a queen, she was what we should call not clean. 
When forks were as yet not invented, and daintiest 
ladies ate with their fingers; when handkerchiefs 
were not in use, since there were none — how were a 
lovely lady's hands to be kept clean.? 

Some two centuries later, as we know, that char- 
meuse Marguerite de Navarre could cry, never 
dreaming she would chiefly be mentioned in history 
by this illuminating cry, "Look at these lovely hands 
of mine; they have not been washed for eight days, 
yet I will wage they outshine yours." 

French courts and even high-hung rose-gardens 
must wait for Diane de Poitiers to take to the cold- 
water English tub, and for pretty Anne of Austria 
to be spoken of as propre etfort nette. 

The persistence of certain of the great French 
families and of their continuing activities is proved 

159 



UP TTTK Si:iNK TO TIIIC nATTI.KFIi:M)?i 

l)y ;i crlliciiu* wril Umi hy llie Vicoiiito de VogUc before 
his hiiiuMilod doiilli. 

He wrote of a certain book lliat "eliarnied me." 
He goes so far as to quarrel with all those who have 
nol ri^jid il. "I flaiinl my diseovery. I am amazed, 
1 am indii,Mia.nl." And Vo^iie's "indignalioir' is not 
softened when ouv eminent Frenchman confesses 
"the title froze me." 

The tilK\ (^iichjucs Unjards .sur Irs Loi.s' SociaJc.'i, 
would, I am bound lo adniil, be as a, cold douche to 
most lovers of new books. It would rather suggest a 
possible soporific llian llie delighl our clever crillc 
found in il. Had IJie Due dTlarcourl's book been 
bai)tized, as Vogiie suggests, Un Regard d Noire 
Temps, each one of us would liaAc longed for a. ])eep 
at this "Look at Our Own Time." The d'Har- 
courts, among so many of the great French families 
whose history is a pari of llu> slory of Taukerville, 
are among those whose own history is indeed of 
"our own time." As Tankerville's sons had been 
at Agincourt, so was Tankerville itself in the great 
war. The chalean liad ceased to j)resent, since 
long cenlnries, any serious mililary advaiilage to 
its possessors. 

INlodern progress, however, had baptized one of lis 
successful achievenuMils with I he name of the feudal 
castle. 

In order to relieve the congestion of transporls and 
cargoes constaully accnnuilal ing on the IlavTC docks 
and (juays, the L^'cnch go\-ernnient some years ago, 
at the cost of twenly-one niinit)ns of francs, builL a 

ICO 



TIP THE SlOfNE 

canal running? from Havre to llic fool, of iljc liill 
known us 'I ankcrvillc — the cliff on whose heights are 
the ruins iind eliAlean. 

During llie recent wuv tin's canal proved to be of 
inestimable service. Canal-boats could carry car- 
goes to the waiting boats and trans])orts at the 
entrance of the canal into the Seine, or the canal- 
boats could themselves be towed by steam-tugs the 
whole length of the river as far as Paris itself. 

Such a center of ulllily and aid lo I^Vench nnlilary 
necessities in furnishing better facililies for junrying 
forward supplies, coal, and clothing to the French 
armies, as well as stocking Paris itself witli food and 
coal, was a fitting target for (icrman destructive 
energies. This caiuil entrance into tlu; Seine was 
bombed again and again by audacious German avi- 
ators. The damage <lone seems to have been in- 
finitesimal. The canal-boats continued to pass 
along the smooth, even waters, laden with their 
precious cargoes, to discharge them or to proceed 
onward to Rouen or Havre with no more con- 
cern than though the "birds" were birds indeed, 
with no death-dealing horrors in their clutches. 

One of tjie most daring of theses German flights 
was that of an enemy aviator who conceived a very 
origiiud manner of attack on Havre. 

Havre, because of its ocean currents, its high 
winds, and also because of Ihe careful, sustained 
watchfulness of its winged air fleet, from the very 
beginning of the war had been found by the Germans 
to be almost impossible of successful attack from the 

101 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIET>DS 

skies. Havre's lights along the shores, its camps on 
the heights of its hills, above the city, and those 
above Harfleur had burned with continuous brill- 
iancy for four long years, as though in signal defiance 
to German i)ro\vess. 

One German aviator, however, succeeded in land- 
ing his bomb. 

Swooi)ing down on the one Paris night express- 
train after it left the Rouen station, the clever 
aviator foiled any night-watchers of the skies by 
flying as low as was consistent with safety. He flew 
just over the express-train. The noise of the latter 
deadened the whir of the aviator's motor. He kept 
his machine unvaryingly just above the engine of the 
train. 

On reaching the Havre station, as the passengers 
alighted, the deadly bombs were dropped. A terrible 
explosion followed, with the i)assengers just alighting 
from the train as the chief victims of this audacious, 
cruel venture. 



We were passing a vast green carpet. This wide 
stretch of lush grass is known as Le INIarnis Vernier. 
The diking of the Seine has rescued this valuable 
pasture-land, to which thousands of cattle are sent 
yearly to be fattened. Tliese fine, moving groups 
spot the landscape with their red-and-white, black- 
and-white notes of color. The diking of the Seine 
lines we have been following, for some miles past, 

IGid 



Ur THE SEINE 

has added fat pastures to the Seine shores and mill- 
ions of wealth to France. 

TJiere is at least once a year a treacherous trick of 
the Seine tides that has also lost thousands to the 
country. 

No contrast could be greater than the spectacle 
presented by the fury of Le Mascaret, the dreaded 
tidal-wave that sweeps up from the sea each year 
in early autumn, and this exquisite pastoral picture. 

Here at Quillebeuf and its near neighbor, Ville- 
quier, on the opposite bank, the Seine shores seemed 
to reach their very apogee of vernal loveliness. The 
river wound in and around low hills, or meandered 
lazily past low shores that carried the eye far in- 
land to bosky groves, to tree-trimmed fields and to 
elms and willows that came to the water's edges as 
though seeking to mirror their graceful shapes. 

One might cry with Lamartine: 

Montez done, flottcz done, roxdez, volez, vent, flamme, 
Oiseaux, vagues, rayons, vapevrs, parfums et voix! 

Terre, exhale ton souffle! Homme, 6levc ton dvie! 
Montez, flottes, roulez, accomplissez vos lots! 

For out of the vast silence, the delicate stillness of 
this perfect marriage of tones, colors, shapes of 
shapely hills, and grace of winding river, the earth 
did indeed seem to exhale its living breath, accom- 
plishing its laws in forms of beauty. 

Yet it is in this, the very bosom of this tender 
landscape, Nature, in the mystery of her inexo- 
rable laws, has chosen as the site of one of her merci- 
less furies. 

163 



HP Till-: SKiNK 'lo Till': n.vrn.KKiiiLDj^ 

V|) IVoiii llu* .s(';i. IIktc sweeps encli :uiliiiiiii l.lic 
nioimlin^" of lin^c w.iaos. On niul on, ;is Lc Mns- 
c.-irel nislu\s i);isl lli(> re.-iclu's of I lie Seine, il seems lo 
^allier ill slreii^lli :in<l in ini^'lil of Aoliime. (ir.-isses 
iiJoiii^ I lie ri\'er-l)en(l slil\-er, ;ire IxMil, ;ire iijjrooled, 
;ire s\ve])l ;iloii,i;' l)\' I lie remorseless flood as lli()ii<;li 
lliey were i)a|)er. 'rree-lninks are lorn a,wa.\' and 
canoes oi- rowing-boa Is are (vliiirned lo powder. 
Woe helide I lie sail-l)oal ean^lil in I lie aii^ry, lem- 
peslnons Hood! No man \)\:\y li\'e in a small l)o;i.l. 
on Ilia I roariii!;', riisliiii<;' \\w\ of waters. 

Alon^" llie .(^nillebenf and \'ille(|iiier (luays lliis 
enrious lidal-wuvo reaches ils lieii^dil of violence. 
'I'lie slonl walls hnill below the (^iiillebeiif (piays 
a.ri> lo prol(>el the lown from the lashini;', monnlain- 
ons wjives. 

Innnmerable ha\'e btHMi llie shipwrecks and I he 
marilime losses occasioned by I his <l(\slrnclive Hood. 

One Iragedy is slill icuiembered willi pitying" 
horror. 

On llie low sliorcs of llic 111 lie lown of Villequier — 
one we w<uv lo visil on llie morrow— yon will sec a 
(•(M'lain cozy, homelike front of a \ ilia, now famous. 
In tlie i^reen arbor lo I he rii,dit, ^)^'erllan^■in,l;• the 
river, llie man France believes lo have been her 
^realesl poel — Victor Iln^o—Jias sal, h)okint;' ont 
npon a scene pecnliarly ailuned to his genius. For 
the \-ery liNir and landscape must have seemed lo 
Ihal "kini;' of poels" to have btuMi fashioiunl lo nux't 
and satisfy Ihe needs of his j;ianl inlellecl. There 
is wilduess and yet a grave grace in tlu» onllook; 

KM. 



UP 'IHK SKINK 

llicrc is jilso a singular, rare sense ol' isoliilJon, of 
acliicved sepurateness from inlrusion from loo ciiii- 
oiis worlds. 

In llial. villa li;ij)py summers were s])onl: by ilio 
poel, who galhered ilierc his family about lu'm in 
Ihe days wJien Hugo's fame rested on so surc^ a 
foundafion, his restless, tempestuous genius (;onld 
give ilself over to the calmer joys of meditation and 
the untroubled (h'lights of versification. 

Out from ihe green arbor, one lat<', gray Sej)l(>m- 
Ih'V day, there went forth for an afteiiioon on the 
river, into tlie boat moored to the landing, the 
poet's daughter, Mme. Vac(iuerie (Mile. Lcoi)ol(h'ne 
Hugo), her husl)a]id, her ten-year-old child, and 
I heir oarsman. 

Th(^ river makes a shar[) bend below the river- 
bottom, to the right. One cannot see the river 
beyond the bend. 

With the suddenness of a cataclysmic fat(^ the 
l^Ieasure-seekers saw, with hoj-ror at first paralyzing 
effort, llie iiuMish, the mount;iinous sweep around 
the river-bend of the dreaded Mascaret. There was 
no warning given. 'J'he tidal-wave came with the 
fury and unexi)ectedness of an elemental force. 

How, oarsman! Pray, dear woman! ('hitch your 
chlhl to your bosom whence it came! For neither 
superhuman efforts to surmount that tossing, up- 
rising wall of sea, high indeed ;is a wall, higher than 
the hills, nor i)rayers to an unheeding Heaven, can 
avail. The waters conu'ng fr<jm the sea havc^ the 
sea's jealous love of booty, and as they met tlie frail 
12 1C5 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

bark unci found therein their prey, with a single 
engulfing embrace, husband and wife and child and 
oarsman were swept to the gray, mighty arms of the 
risen tide. 

Under the weeping willows, the recovered bodies 
of these victims of La Barre sleep their eternal sleep 
in the Villequier cemetery. 

This La Barre or Le Mascaret being one of the 
costless spectacles of nature, if viewed from a safe 
vantage-point, Parisians, ever in search of a novelty 
to whip to sensational excitation their fatigued sen- 
sibilities, will come from afar to watch, through a 
monocle or an opera-glass. Delighted cries, excla- 
mations, rise u}> from the shores as the angry waters 
send their hissing spray skyward. To have ex- 
perienced an agreeable shudder was worth the 
journey from Paris — in pre-war days. 



ni 

At each sweep of the river — and the Seine has as 
many turnings as a capricious woman — at each one 
of these twists of the waterway a village, a spire, a 
chateau now quickened curiosity. 

A Norman chiu'ch tower fronting a great sweep of 
plain is the church's sentinel guarding Quillebeuf. 
The tower has the sturdy lines of its Norman an- 
cestry. It stands forth, overlooking a thousand cattle 
below it, grazing in the lush grass as though its duty 
were to bless cattle rather than to baptize pilots. 

This ceremony of baptizing pilots with the Quille- 

IGG 



UP THE SEINE 

beiif waters has been a tradition, a rite, an unwrit- 
ten law among Normandy mothers for long cen- 
turies. That gallant, impulsive King Henri IV, 
whose natiu'c and temperament fitted him, above 
almost all other French monarchs, to govern French- 
men — had a way of putting his seal on towns and 
villages. It is the way of imaginative men, who see 
farther ahead than their neighbors. 

Henri IV, having seen possibilities in Quillebeuf 
no one else had divined, enlarged the town, sur- 
rounded it with fortifications, and even wished to 
christen it Henricopolis. The town has shrunk 
since that fine effort to render it important. The 
fortifications are gone, but a law which the inven- 
tive king promulgated exists to this day. 

Henri IV decreed that only pilots born in Quille- 
beuf could be given a license for pilotage on the 
Seine. Ambitious mothers-to-be of pilots, therefore, 
for centuries have been leaving farms and villages 
and have come to the boti port of Quillebeuf to be 
confined. The child must be baptized with the 
water of the Puits du Gard. This license was ac- 
corded as a privilege to the town. 

The eleventh-century Romanesque ornamentation 
of the tower has thus looked down on a long pro- 
cession of infant pilots. Thus do age-old traditions, 
laws, and customs bind modern France to her past. 
And fluent writers and easy-thinking philosophers 
have been prophesying, during these past four and a 
half eventful years, how radically France and French- 
men were to be changed, were to be newly born, were 

1G7 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

to become endowed with a fresh pair of spiritual, 
moral, and mental wings that were to send them 
flying to an unknown zenith of hitherto unattained 
heights! 

A race that has two thousand years behind it is 
not radically changed by a four and a half years' 
war — any more than its enemy across the Rhine has 
been reborn to a better nature or to a loftier mo- 
rality, since Caesar and Strabo found them as cruel, 
as vindictive, and as savage as they have proved 
themselves to be; they also have carefully preserved 
their ancient essential characteristics. 



CHAPTER X 

A CROSSING AT QUILLEBEUF 

T CONFESS to having approaelicd the quays at 
■■• Quillebeiif with a certain sensil)le rising of the 
pulse. I was about to turn traitor. Savoring of 
treachery it seemed indeed thus to abandon the 
voyage up the Seine, in the slow but agreeably 
sluggish little steamer, and to take to the road. 

Our treachery was, however, to wear the miti- 
gating aspect of a minor crime. If we left the boat 
at Quillebeuf it was with the assured hope of 
retaking it at Caudebec. 

To those hurried travelers who fear to lose step 
with the modern movement unless they enter a 
country or a town at a hundred-horse-power speed 
i will impart a very open secret. To view some of 
the richest jewels starred along the Seine shores, 
Quillebeuf and her opposite shore provide a means of 
crossing the river. It is at this point the motorist 
coming from the Calvados (Normandy) country — 
from Trouville or Deauville — finds his first ferry. 
There is a second ferry at Duclair. For the de- 
lectable enjoyment of visiting the peculiarly interest- 
ing features centered about Lillebonne and Caudebec 
this river passage at Quillebeuf is preferably the 
chosen one. 

169 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

To do even cursory justice to Lillebonne, Caude- 
bec, Saint- Wandrille, and Jumieges — one must indeed 
take to the road. The approach by car to each one 
of these charming and inexhaustibly ricli sites reveals 
a hundred wonderful surprises and imparts innu- 
merable sensations. There are road beauties to be 
remembered a whole lifetime; there are descents on 
architectural and historic treasures that take on the 
aspect of fairylike apparitions — so unexpectedly do 
they emerge from tree-groves or along golden-hued 
fields. 

As I sat on the Quillebeuf wharf, it occurred to 
me, among the above reflections, there were two grim- 
visaged possibilities which might spoil our plan of a 
descent upon Lillebonne in time for catching the boat 
at Caudebec. Were the car not to meet us; were 
the bac — the ferry-boat, plying between Quille- 
beuf and the opposite shore not to be true to its 
advertised hoiu', our fate would be sealed; there 
would be two full days that must be squandered in 
exi)loring La Seine luferieure in lieu of reaching 
Rouen that very night. The Seine boat starts from 
Havre only on alternate days. 

Who ever succeeded in life who was daunted by 
the fear of encountering chances? The true con- 
queror in the battle for j^rizes is surely he who counts 
chances as sign-posts pointing the way onward to 
the right goal. 

Delivered of this questionably profound observa- 
tion, I proceeded to make the acquaiulauce of a 
philosopher who was more worthy Ihau I to wear the 

170 



A CROSSING AT QUILLEBEUF 

mantle of any one of the minor Greek sages. This 
cahn observer of Hfe's annoyances, and also this 
contented recipient of its balanced pleasures, as I 
was to find, was seated beside me on the wooden 
benches of the Quillebeuf quays. 

I had just been reading an enthusiastic account of 
Quillebeuf's former attractions. As wise a man as 
Jules Janin was asserting that this dull, silent, dead- 
and-alive little town was "a town quite apart among 
Norman towns ; it had its own customs, its manners, 
its dances, its poetry, its accent." I looked along 
the long rows of the tidy but expressionless houses. 
What and where were the characteristic signs to 
prove it "a town apart ".^^ Shut blinds, tightly 
closed doors, and silent streets: such an aspect might 
prove death, possibly coming deca,y, but life — of 
semblance of life there was but this human wi'eck 
beside me. 

Bowed with age, the old man's cheeks showed an 
interesting combination of sea- weather tan and the 
deep reds burned in by the Normandy sun and tinted 
by Calvados applejack. His speech, it is true, 
proved a certain unique linguistic peculiarity. 
Having lost his whole frontal dental apparatus, his 
words came with a whistling accompaniment due 
to two teeth that "bit opposite." 

The old man's spirit, however, was superior to 
these evidences of the cruelties of age. His soul 
seemed as serene as was the serenely flowing Seine. 
He had confessed, with modest pride, to having been 
one of the infant pilots held over the Puits du Gard. 

171 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

"Cetait Ic boil temps, Madame, those were the 
good old times, wlieii customs were observed. 
AVlio respects them now? Ah well! the world pro- 
gresses. France has shown us that. AYlio could 
have tliought we could beat tlie Germans? Ila! Jia! 
we beat them — and I've seen them, prisoners, going 
down-stream." 

The laugh was a cackle. But it had in it, like old 
bells jangling out of tune, the note of triumph. 

On my querying whether Quillebeuf was as dead 
as it looked, couched, it is true, in polite phrase, the 
contented sage rej^lied: 

"Mais oui, Madame, Quillebeuf is dead indeed, if 
you wish^ — in winter — yes. We are so far from the 
great world. But in summer — " The thin old arm 
slipped out through the ragged, cuffless shirt-sleeve, 
to point triumpliantly to the vehicles below us, 
alined along the paved bank leading to tlie ferry 
landing. Two cars, a char-d-bancs laden with grunt- 
ing pigs and a hay-cart, were the objects to prove 
the alluring features of the summer season. 

"See — are we not gay, in summer?" the con- 
tented philosopher continued. "All the world comes 
here to cross over. One is never alone, once June is 
come." 

The smile that illumined the wrinkled face was 
beautiful; even the absence of all teeth save two, 
and the i)ink cavern the widely parted lips disclosed, 
could not desiro}^ the beauty of the sold that irradi- 
ated the face of this kindly creature. Here was one 

who, as life was slipping away, could yet glean happi- 

I7i 



A CROSSING AT QUILLEBEUF 

ncss from simple pleasures. He was content to look 
on at life's show. 

I had learned my lesson. It was one, it is true, 
all the easier of acceptance and of possible assimila- 
tion, since both the car and the bac were on time. 

"Far from the great world!" 

The phrase stuck. On the brief crossing, across 
the sunlit river, the words took on an ever-growing 
importance, a deeper significance. This voyage— 
an inland voyage, as the immortal Stevenson bap- 
tized this floating between inland shores and mead- 
ows — these still, seemingly lifeless towns, this 
sluggish provincial French life — how remote were all 
these from the great centers of France's activities! 
As in Honfleur, as at Harfleur, at Tankerville, and 
over yonder in vanishing Quillebeuf, one had the 
feeling of having left modern France; of having 
stepped back into that older, more picturesque, 
historic France of the Bourbons and of Napoleon. 
Yet, as every streamlet and modest river running 
into the Seine swells it to the grandeur of the wide, 
nobly flowing stream, so does each one of these ob- 
scure, forgotten little towns and villages prove they 
pour their contributory energies and the fruits of 
their laborious industry to feed the mighty forces 
we know as France. 

France herself, and with firmer conviction than 
ever since the recent war, will boldly affirm the power 
of these forces. She is now, since victory has come 
to her, serenely conscious of leading the world. All 
the world recognizes the genius there is and has been 

173 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

ill France for tlie doing of great things. But France 
at times forgets, with superb disdain, the fact there 
are other geniuses demonstrating their renovating 
activities elsewhere. 

I remember some years ago asldiig one of the 
cleverest among ckn'^er Frenclimen why France 
showed so Httle intelligent curiosity in either the 
intellectual or in the artistic achievements of other 
nations. "There is the best of reasons for this in- 
difference. Nothing of importance has been con- 
tributed either to art or to literature, since the 
Renaissance, save what France and Frenchmen have 
given to the world!" was the self-satisfied answer. 

Pray Heaven her light may continue to sliine! 
One star, even of the first magnitude, does not, how- 
ever, make the stellar universe. To some of these 
lower, more earthly luminiuues France appears to be 
slowly lifting her glances; with her genius of classi- 
fication, each star, in time, will be discovered as 
influences either to be concihated or feared — as 
rivals. 



CHAPTER XI 



LILLEBONNE 



/^NCE across the river, we were soon seated in the 
^-^ waiting car. 

In an astonishingly short whirl of the wlieels we 
were dipping in among low hills to the valley in 
which Lillebonne rests. The entrance to the town 
was disappointingly commonplace. Its dull-faced 
houses and the commercial-traveler-looking hotel 
must surely, we thought, have been built yesterday. 

The townsfolk appeared to be as uninteresting as 
was the town itself, to have fashioned themselves, 
it seems, on its dulled, sleepy air. 

In seeking our goal, one street only, La rue Cesa- 
rine, lured us to follow its windings; its name at 
least savored of that older world whose interesting 
survivals we had come to investigate. Though the 
street's name had the right classic ring, the thor- 
oughfare did not lead us to the right spot. 

At last our car brought us close to a deep hollow. 
Within the curves an unmistakable amphitheater 
and its grassy gradients proclaimed that here was 

176 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

the old Roman Theater — the magnet that had 
drawn us. 

An iron raihng separates the too curious investi- 
gator from the grass-grown inclosure. There are, 
however, certain simple ways of obtaining entrance 
into almost any forbidden paradise. The cool, 
grassy seats wooed us. We, in turn, wooed a genial, 
yielding guardian. Soon we were the other side of 
the locked gate and were comfortably ensconced on 
the odorous grasses, where, centuries ago, Julio- 
bona's gay Roman world brought its slaves and the 
slaves brought cushions. 

In our time, and from our more modest seats, there 
was a good deal of rebuilding to be done. We must 
first of all try to enlarge the theater to its former 
dimensions. The guide-books and works on arche- 
ology will give you the exact measurements of the 
amphitheater, the Cena, the grand cordon circulairc, 
as also they will describe the eight cages and the 
seven vomitories. It is still possible to trace the 
position and place of the cages and vomitories, in 
spite of Nature's triumphant success in growing 
grass, trees, and shrubs to recover her domain. 

It was, I fear, the charm of evoking the deco- 
rative and the human aspects of this world that 
formerly crowded this now deserted Roman center 
of cruelty and of gaiety, rather than its more purely 
architectural character, that I, for one, found ab- 
sorbing. 

The noon sun must have shone as brilliantly and 
softly two thousand years ago as it did now, on those 

176 



LILLEBONNE 

three thousand spectators, who shouted, applauded, 
and cursed, in all the different tongues of as mixed 
a world as peopled the theater. 

This Juliobona — named after that famous and 
infamous Julia of the Roman days — was a reflecting 
mirror of Rome itself. Far north from Italy as it 
must have seemed to a Roman noble, its importance 
as a military center had its retroactive effect on the 
city. If all roads led to Rome, Juliobona's roads led 
to Rouen, to Harfleur, to Paris via Caudebec, to 
Dreux, and to Evreux. 

Repeople this theater; attempt to recreate the 
scene on the Cena below, and one could image the 
spectacle that could cheat Roman eyes and senses 
into believing that their lost Rome was transplanted 
to this Gallic center. Gladiators, musicians, actors, 
and acrobats — all were here to play out their part, 
to earn praise, or to finish, spectacularly as often 
as not, in death. Lions, tigers, bulls, monkeys, 
panthers were brought from African wilds to con- 
tinue the slaughter, when a burning of Christian 
martyrs had satiated the appetite for human sacri- 
fice. Dancers would appear as God had made women 
when the Garden of Eden was the rendezvous of 
innocence. 

Chairs, facsimiles of those elaborately carved 
seats you may still sit in, at Athens, at the Theater 
of Dionysius, would be filled by a luxuriously cos- 
tumed crowd of aristocrats. The same play of 
human passions would be found fronting the mimic 
stage as fill the seats of any twentieth-century 

177 



UP THE SEINE r(^ 'VUK l^ATTLEFTELDS 

operatic pcrfornuince or :i racc-mccting. "Women 
ruined tlieir husbands and sou<»lit lovers evil enough 
to give tlieui i)recious stull's, sunii)iuous lillers, 
beautiful slaves, well combed and groomed; above 
all els(\ ]>(\arls and jirecious stones as superb as those 
of Milhridates" — with such women as these were 
the now empty seats filled. Read for "litters," 
"automobiles," and for "slaves," "servants," which 
even the ricliest of husbands or lovers can hardly 
in our daj' obtain, and how much has our great 
world changed in two thousand years. 

For further s])lendor in the scene of that older day 
there would be the super})ly togaed Romans, the 
centurions in their glittering armor, the brilliantly 
costumed Gaids in those startiingly viA'id colors in 
wlucli they delighted. From their necks and arms 
would flash the sparkle of richly chased necklaces 
and arndets, proving to Greek artisans the genius of 
the Gallic worker in metals. There would be Lib- 
yans, Assyrians, Egy])tian decorators whose skull- 
flattened profiles would recall those i)ainted on the 
tombs of their country. There would be Greek 
helfcra^ with their statuesque beauty, and the Greek 
philoso])lu>r- tutor who instructed Roman lads in 
knowledge of Greek arts and letters. Rome trans- 
ported luM* world of slaves as easily as she did her 
statues and mosaics. 

Each and every phase through which Rome itself 
passed, in its five Imndred yeai*s of life, from its days 
of Ca^sarean splendor to its decay, woidd be reflected 
on the Ccna of this remote Gallo-Roman theat<M-. 

178 



I.ILLEBONNE 

From llu« ghidiaLoriiil shows of jmrc sLrenglh, llic 
s|)0(Uic-Ic would cliiinj^e to scttiiif^ forth u faint 
imilutiou of ii Neronian intissacrmg of Christiiui 
martyrs. 

A single statue now in the Rouen Museum re- 
mains of all Ihe world of statues which onee adorned 
ilie ui>per columns that (curved about the topmost 
gallery of the theater. This beautiful statue was 
found in the ruins of the Baths not far from the 
theater. Some vestiges of ])aintings were there also 
excavated. Coins, bits of armor, and jewelry were 
the reward of tlie researches made in the beginning 
of the nineteenlh century. 

All that was left for eyes to see of the splendor of 
this Old World was the goldening glow of noon sun- 
rays lighting each blade of grass to be a torch of 
briglitness. Warmth and color and perfume, sun 
and grasses, would still yield you these. One could 
picture indeed the great scene; and now there was 
only a wilderness of shrubs, a tree growing here, a 
daisy there, out of the cage through which lions have 
roared — and the world of Home seemed indeed dead 
these two tliousand years. 

Yet if stones could speak, these rocky hewn 
gradients would tell us their story. And as they 
told their story, they would smile — smile at the 
fatuous vanity of man— of Frenchmen, of historians 
who can see these eloquent reminders of all that 
Rome did for France and for French character, and 
yet, while every Frenchman delights in calling him- 
self a "Latin," lie takes little account of how nuich 

170 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

of the Roman there is in the make-up of his char- 
acter. 

Emerson tells us that, "As the granite comes to 
the surface and towers into the highest mountains, 
and if we dig down, we find it below the superficial 
strata; so in all the details of our domestic and civil 
life is hidden the elemental realitj^ which ever and 
anon comes to the surface and forms the grand men 
who are leaders and examples, rather than the com- 
panions, of the race. The granite is curiously con- 
cealed under a thousand formations and surfaces, 
under fertile soils, and grasses and flowers, under 
well-manured arable fields, and large towns and 
cities, but it makes the foundation of these, and is 
always indicating its presence by slight but sure 
signs." 

The "granite" in the French character — that 
power of resistance, that heroic splendor in active 
warfare as in patience under suffering, that quality 
of grim courage that has taken the whole world off 
its feet, in startled surprise, during this war was 
above all other wars one to try men's elemental 
capacities. 

I find this "granite" in the Frenchman to be the 
Roman deposit. That stern hardening, that inflex- 
ible determination that voiced itself in the four 
laconic words, ''lis 7ie 'passeront pas^' ("They shall 
not pass"), at Verdun, and before Paris, in 1918 — 
surely that is the voice that echoes from the tongues 
of Plutarch's men, the voice that Macaulay in his 
Lays of Ancient Rome has made musical. There is 

180 



LILLEBONNE 

all the stretch of two thousand years between the 
heroic deeds of those immortal heroes of Roman days 
and of the poihis who held the citadel of Verdun, 
and who, for the second time, drove the German 
barbarians across the Marne. 

These soldiers of France and their chiefs are cast 
indeed in the Roman mold; the granite has come 
through the more superficial surface again to show 
its stern, inflexible strength. 

There are other sites in France far more instinct 
with what we may call Roman feeling, Roman pre- 
dilection for grandeur, than that which Lillebonne 
can offer. The Maison Carree at Nimes, the Thea- 
ter at Orange, and at Autun, Caesar's capital — the 
Augustodumum of the Romans — at Autun there 
are still uprising the imposing, symmetrical Fortes 
d'Arroux and St. -Andre whose rechristening only 
emphasizes the essential Roman characteristics of 
these two beautiful examples of Roman art in 
building. 

The Theater at Orange has been so Parisianized 
that it can be counted as holding first place among 
all the vestiges of antiquity we have modernized 
— modernized by frequentation rather than by 
restoration; for it has been consecrated anew to 
our own life and time by the frequent representa- 
tions of the Comedie Frangaise, whose open-air per- 
formances in this classic setting, with the celestial 
lighting of moon and stars, with the mystic back- 
ground of dimmed trees and blurred foliage, set the 
scene for "Pliedre" and "(Edipus Rex," with an 

13 181 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Athenian beauty, thus inspiring the actors them- 
selves to communicate to their roles the finest 
accents of poignant actuality. 

In Paris, at the Hotel Cluny, you will raise your 
eyes and head in your attempt to grasp the magni- 
tude of the plan of the Roman Thermes (Baths), 
whose dimensions, were no other proofs left us, 
would help to paint for us the mental picture of 
the scale of magnificence on which Romans in 
Lutetia (the Roman name for Paris) fashioned their 
lives, in this country of their exile. 

If stones could speak, these Roman ruins would 
give us an illuminating record of all Rome brought 
to France during its five hundred years of occupa- 
tion, and all it left behind it, in influences as inde- 
structible as are some of its monuments. 



II 

Let us lift a corner of Caesar's tent and look upon 
the faces of the Romans who followed the conqueror 
into Gaul. 

First of all one would be struck with the luxury, 
the magnificence, displayed in the adornment of the 
great Roman's surroundings. Suetonius tells us that 
Caesar carried with him parquets for his tents, or 
the houses {oedificios) which he "requisitioned" (in 
our modern phrase) — parquets of mosaic and mar- 
quetry. On his tables — for there were always two 
—one for the richer Romans, his guests, and an- 
other to which the more prominent provincials were 

182 



LILLEBONNE 

bidden to take their places — on these, his tables, sil- 
ver and gold ornaments were set forth in abundance. 
Sober though he was himself — all great conquerors 
practise that virtue — Caesar's table was as sumi)tu- 
ous as though he were in Rome. He knew the value 
of objective effect; he understood the psychic in- 
fluences produced through the mere art of seeing. 
All these and all his other discreetly managed more 
or less theatrical effects were arranged with a grave, 
far-reaching purpose; those who came, out of either 
curiosity, interest, or enmity, to see what Caesar 
was doing in Gaul, would go back and talk about all 
these wonders in the Forum. 

"I think there was never seen in any army," says 
Gaston Boissier, of all Caesar's historians perhaps 
the most enlightened as he is certainly the most 
sympathetic,^ "as many men of letters, as many 
clever people as in that one." Those who came from 
Rome found the best of Rome at Caesar's table. 
"They told him everything, all the most insignifi- 
cant as well as all the most important things. . . . 
After having discussed literature or rhetoric, having 
listened to the verses of Matius or Quintus, . . . 
heard all the young men talking of all that had hap- 
pened in Rome, of all the political disorders . . . 
private scandals, or the last bons mots ... I imagine 
one must rather have believed they were assisting 
at a reunion of clever men, in some aristocratic house 
of the Palatine, or of the rich quarter of the Carenes, 
than to realize that they were in the heart of Belgium 

^ Gaston Boissier, CicSron et ses Amis, 

183 



IIP THE SEINE TO TTIl^ BATTLEITET.DS 

near the Rhine, or near the sea in Gaul, or on Ihc 
eve of a batik'." 

During the ten lon*:^ years that Ca\sar was busy 
conquering (^laul, llien practically only a geographical 
expression, as well as IJrillany, and incidentally 
settling (juarrels with the Belgians and Germans, 
Gaul was being civilized. 

For the Gaul, in the midst of whieli was set all 
this "magnificence" whicli Cavsar carried witli him, 
along with his irresistible lloman legions, was for 
the most i)art a savage country. The land was 
mostly all forest. The winters were horribly cold. 
The Romans were confined to their quarters for long 
months. It was in the spring, sunmier, and autunm 
that the battles l)egan again. 

The armies of the Kaiser, in this present war, 
have followed the same rule, climatic conditions 
in middle and northern France and Belgium not 
having changed, as have their worlds. 

While battles were being fought in those parts of 
Gaul and in those cities already conquered, sui)erb 
Roman roads, theaters, baths, fortresses, and dwell- 
ing-houses were to be l)uilt, as all the world knows, 
with the same rapidity with which German generals, 
in om* day, have built railroads, have fortified de- 
fenses,and have erected nmnition- works in conquered 
Belgium and invaded France, and by the same 
means. Caesar gave the Kaiser an object-lesson, hi 
this as in other more cruel ways, of waging war and 
of utilizing the energies of a conquered people. 
Caesar, as did his successors, taught the Gauls to 

184 



LILLEBONNE 

build roads, to fashion fine houses, to erect great 
edifices and strong fortresses. This is the secret of 
the rapid transformation of the more savage parts of 
Gaul into a lival)le country. 

Cajsar, who up to the time of his Gallic campaigns 
had been a politician, proved himself not only a 
great general, but an administrator of genius. 
Pascal thought he was beginning to play the part of 
a great general rather too late in life. "He was 
really too old to amuse himself by conquering the 
world" — he was already forty-four years old. But 
Csesar was wiser than Pascal. He was in Gaul not 
only to subdue that rich country, but chiefly to 
impress Rome with the sense of his greatness. He 
was also waiting for the moment when, politically, 
Rome would be ripe for his plucking. 

Through the tortuous ways of men's ambitions, 
designs, and oftentimes their crimes, there come 
forth, in wondrous manner, the shaping forces which 
mold great men and the future of great nations. 



CHAPTER XII 



THE ROAD TO CAUDEBEC — AN ADVENTURE 



WHETHER or not the road leading out from 
Lillebonne to Caudebec, via the river road, 
was one of those fasliioned by GalHc slaves under 
the eyes of their Roman engineers, I have never 
taken the pains to investigate. As an author re- 
sponsible to her readers I am conscious of shirking a 
duty. 

Yet, surely, since all the world loves a lover, I am 
already forgiven. I had fallen in love, fathoms deep. 
As the object of my obsession was The Road itself, 
it was one of those senlimenlal allaehments to which 
one can confess having fallen victim with no fear of 
the secret being that lesson in indiscretion one 
communicates in the telling. 

The Road — was there another in France to com- 
pare to it? We had barely left Lillebonne behind 
us when the road made us captives to ils alluring 
charm. It wound in and out of grain-fields; it 
showed us now groves where surely nymphs must 
still come to bathe in moonlight rays; it plunged us 



18(> 



THE ROAD T(J CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

under the green catliedi'al aisles of towering beeches 
and oaks with slender poplars for spires. 

What tricks have Frenchmen played with their 
land to make it so lovable? Why is it even we aliens 
turn to it, as we do to a second country? It is not 
alone its beauty that draws men from all over the 
world, that attunes the lyre of its poets to sing its 
power so melodiously — a power so strong that its 
sons never wish to leave the home-soil, and mourn 
for it inconsolably when in exile. The heart of this 
endearing France has been enriched with a soul, one 
might say, w^ith the sentient consciousness of her 
people. 

Is it also because something of the soul of the older 
gods still lingers, still whispers in the harmonious 
music of her pines? Surely in yonder field of wheat, 
a massive plain of pure gold, in those ripe grains, 
falling in tender grace, are interwoven the tresses of 
the blond goddess. Ceres herself must have sown 
and ripened to luxuriant splendor of fertility those 
other vast carpets — the silvery green of the buck- 
wheat, the paler gold of the oat-fields, and the 
deeper russet of the barley. 

For a perfect hour we wandered on foot through 
this radiant land. It would have been profanation 
to continue to hear a pulsating motor. 

Once a part of the scene, the warm, voluptuous 
breath of summer at its richest swept us, enveloped 
us; its odors made the senses dizzy. The voices and 
sounds that came from behind the hedges told us wc 
were not alone in being stirred by this intoxicating 

187 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

riot of nature. A bull's roar, in a distant field, rang 
out, was vibrant, sonorous as a clear trumpet call; 
and when the air was still once more one heard 
sheep moving among the grasses, nibbling, stepping 
softly as only sheep move daintily, in fat pastures. 
There was the silken rustle of bees among unseen 
flowers, whose odors perfumed an air already laden 
with sweet grain and earth scents. 

Tout est beau, et tout est bicn; il est hon d'etre ne. 

For once a remembering line of Leconte de Lisle 
came to the lips to voice the brimming sense of well- 
being. 

That there might be no suffering humanity to mar 
the scene, two women, one young, with dee])-blue 
Norman eyes, and cheeks carnation-hued, as though 
in conscious connivance, suddenly confronted us. 
Both women stood quite still for a moment; we in 
our turn appeared to have comnumicated the shock 
of a mild surprise. Then the girl with the lovely 
eyes and deep-pink cheeks smiled. And we came 
nearer to smile in return and to ask: 

"It is thus you carry your milk.?" 

"Mais oui, Madame," was the quick, unembar- 
rassed reply. The tone, however, imi)lied that the 
carrying two full pails, brimming with warm milk, 
pails linked to two chains that depended from the 
huge wooden yoke about the girl's broad, sunburnt 
shoulders, was indeed the only ])Ossible, or rational, 
method of piloting full pails in safety. 

188 



THE ROAD TO CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

"These ladies are not used, perhaps, to our country' 
ways" — aux coutumcs de notre fays — the elder woman 
now added. It was on her, rather than on the maiden, 
that our ej'es were now focused. For the woman 
was walking, as it seemed, in a kind of cage. Two 
wooden rails, forming a perfect square, was the 
quadrangle encircling the peasant's stout frame. 
She held the ui)i)er rails with her hand, thus steady- 
ing the pails resting within the rails. Here were 
figures that surely must liave stepped forth from 
some bucolic scene of the early centuries. Virgil 
himself nu'gjit have sung the rustic charm of two 
sucli milkmaids. 

The sturdy figures left us, to be merged in a field 
of pure gold at our right. A man's voice called 
across a near-by hedge: 

"C'esttoi, Gabrielle.P" 

"Qui, c'est moi," the girl's voice rang out, clear, 
unabashed. 

A soldier's horizon-blues were lifted above the 
hedge; at sight of us, in the open road, the figure 
rested, immobile, across the hawthorn hedge. The 
wide brown eyes stared at us. 

Then, with a light spring, the young man landed 
on his two feet in the very middle of the road. He 
touched his kepi, in salute, and then followed in the 
wake of the women, across the golden field. Once 
we were out of sight, the uncontrollable lover's song 
burst out upon the warm, still air. The quickening, 
radiant s[)irit of the warm day was entering into 
other souls than ours. 

189 



UP THE si:iNi<: ro Tin: battlefields 

Even when the song died ;iw;i>, in the far dis- 
tance, it seemed as il' the eaiih continued the song, 
singing lor vvvy ghuhiess. The \oice was surely 
'7« roi.v dc Pini qui cJuuifi' i) trarcrs h's cJiainps." 
And again I kept repealing, '"Toul est beau, el tout 
est bien: it est hon </\V;-<' //(','" 

The dear, the lovable, tlie enticing land! How 
your beauty lures us, how it subdues us to your 
spirit, how your cliarni enters into one's very blood 
and makes of eviMi an ardent American a patriot 
ol' two countries, the lover of two flags where there 
should be but one. 

As our car carried us on and on, those pictures of 
an unsuspected France, of a France so far removed 
from modern innovations, this glorious spectacle of 
a France abloom witli the j)onlilicaI glory of pros- 
perity, followed us, warmed and comforted us. 
Surely there had been no war; there was no dev- 
astated, outraged France; there were no poor 
creatures living not a hundred kilonu>ters away, in 
rootless houses, beliind glassless windows, with the 
horror still conl'rt)nting them, night and day, of their 
towns and villages a nuiss of ruins, with no house to 
call home, and with nothing left of former pros])erity 
but a signed paper, reaily for governmental relief. 

UMiis spectacle of horror on which we had looked 
only a short time since was surely a bad dream, a 
vision of a Dantesque liell. The true France was 
this country, teeming with ripe harvests, where shet^i) 
nibbled in deep grasses, where nothing had been 
changed for centiu*ies, and where the song of a lover 

190 



THE ROAD TO CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

carried on the long chorus of lovers that had sung 
itself out under groves of silvery beeches and wide- 
spreading oaks for all the years since Ciiesar went 
back to Rome to die at the base of Pompey's statue. 



n 

Farms close to the road, here and there a villa 
with its trim French garden and the century-old 
trees in the park, warned us that the road was coming 
to an end. Our lyrical moment was already a part 
of our past. 

The gardens we liked best, we avowed, were the 
true French gardens, not those planned by or after 
Le Notre, but the farmers', the peasants' gardens. 
In the farms and thatched houses we passed windows 
were geranium-trimmed; there were Gloire-de-Dijon, 
Roses Tremieres, or purple clematis starring the dull 
brick or timbered facades with their white, pink, or 
deep-purple flowers; wallflowers, sans-soucis, phlox, 
and lavender bloomed beside cabbages, salad, and the 
dung-heap. We were about to protest against the 
dung-heap with all the vigor of American distaste 
for noxious sights and odors, when something 
happened. 

An adventure met us, cap in hand, so to speak. 

A motor-cycle, coming along at a furious rate, 
slowed up as they saw us approach. 

A warning hand signaled us to stop. As the 
vehicle was swept beyond our wings, we saw that 
the two occupants were immistakably Americans, 

191 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTEEITELDS 

iiiid both, wo Lhought, were officers in our army. 
One of the two, the one seated in the "wife-killer's 
seat," as both motors stopped, uncoiled his loiij; 
legs, put one leg over the side of Ihe car, and slood 
up, saluting, as he walked toward us. 

"Sorry to sloj) you, ladies, but we're lost. Can 
you understan<l our lingo?" The voice, which was 
the voice of the Far West, no more seemed to belong 
to the superb creature bcfori us Ihan had it been 
the organ for Iransmilling sixrcli through the lips 
of a Greek god come to life. 

Our amazingly beautiful compatriot — for beau- 
tiful he was — had a gigantes(iue heighl. The slim, 
su])ple body slood as slraighl as a Nor I hern pine. 
Bui the classic cut of those perfect features — the 
somewhat small, exquisitely chiseled face, wilh its 
straight Creek nose, the oval-shaped clun^ks, the 
rounded chin, and eyes set far apart as are the eyes 
of an Adonis, in marble — eyes shaded by long 
drooping lids, through which deep-blue ])ools re- 
flected just now a mingling of embarrassed i)er- 
plexity ami mirth— where were the ethnic strains 
that answered the riddle of that pure Greek 
type? 

Our young god was now leaning over with the 
easy, simi)le familiarity of kindly Western manners, 
both his long arms on our window-sills. Having 
been assured we spoke the "lingo," he was proceeding 
further to exi)lain the situation, when the driver of 
tlie vehicle found himself too remote from the center 
of interest. Now both stood before us — the one 



THE ROAD TO CAUDKBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

fair and the other dark. And both were so amazingly 
tall — so superb! 

The latest comer proceeded to take the narrative 
of their adventures from his comrade's lips. "Hope 
you'll excuse us, ladies, but something — I can't 
exi)lain — something made us think you were Eng- 
lish, or Americans. And we were just desperate. 
AVe got lost just tlie other side of that 'ere town; and 
once in the town, not a blessed word could any one 
understand. Nor could we." Here both of the 
men laughed heartily, as though getting lost in a 
French town, with no hope of being understood, were 
the richest of jokes. 

"Yes, ma'am — and if you'll believe me, they 
didn't even understand when we said 'manger'" 
(the dark-eyed giant pronounced the word "mange, ") 
"and we're starving, having left Rouen at six a.m. 
and wandering about these cursed roads — I beg 
pardon, but they are crisscrossy — when the sign- 
posts spell out every village but the ones you're 
looking for. This wandering about has kinder 
freshened our ai)petites." 

We could meet our fellow-Americans there, and 
on a common ground. We confessed the keenness of 
edge of our own hunger. The four eyes before us 
beamed. They fairly radiated their youthful de- 
light at the unconventional proposition I made. 
Wliat were conventions when one had the luck to 
meet two such fine creatures on a highroad? 

" Why not go back to Caudebec with us — and lunch? 
There is an excellent restaurant there, wc learn." 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

There was not an instant's hesitation. 

"Right you are, hxdy," cried our fair friend, and 
he was seated in his death-named scat in a jiffy. 
The driver was nodding his curly head gaily, singing 
out at the top of liis Western-pitched voice, "Meet 
you at the church!" Tliey were speeding down the 
road as though going to a rendezvous with the very 
creatures of their choice. 

In an age when the emancipated woman tells us 
she has no use for man, wlien the vote is lier dot, 
and freedom her boiu-n, I look ujion my own creeds 
as those buried in dusty tomes, relegated to forgotten 
library slielves. 

I was brought up in a period when our sex still 
believed in man. In spite of some chastening disil- 
lusions, that early educational bias prevails over 
modern pronunciamientos. I have, therefore, no 
sliame in avowing an agreeable stirring of inward 
excitement at the thought of continuing the ac- 
quaintance of those two young compatriots. 

There was barely time to receive another agreeable 
surprise. The magnificent front portal of Caudebec's 
famous chiu-ch met us, at the very entrance of the 
little town. 

"Superb!'' I ejaculated, and then feared the 
young giants might deem it a personal compliment. 
Not they. There they stood, "watching out" as 
they would have put it — awaiting us under the 
carved laces of the tall, uprising sj)ire. They might 
have been two knights of an age contemporaneous 
with the Renaissance sculptures. They stood "at 

194 



THE ROAD TO CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

iittcntion, " stiluting with a grace as perfect as though 
IraiiKHl at a court. 

TJie fairer of the two — one we were to k'aru was 
Second-Lieutenant Oscar — had heard my outburst. 
Twisting his head, he blushed under the sun-rays as 
liis eyes measured the great spire. "Tall, hey? Some 
s])ire, ain't it?" But his companion had no eyes for 
beauty. He was bent on more carnal joys. 

"That restaurant, lady, is it near?" 

The appeal was couched in a tone there was no 
mistaking. Keen-edged hunger alone could com- 
nuuiicate a note so sharpened with longing. 

The walk onward to the quays was short, but ob- 
structed. We had stumbled on the Caudebec mar- 
ket-day. The sidewalks and streets were crowded 
with stalls, with awnings and umbrellas. Stout 
girls and crimson-cheeked women were screech- 
ing their wares. And the debris and litter of day's 
bargains bestrewed gutters and counters. 

We finally reached the river shores. A providen- 
tial encounter met us at the outset. The owner of 
an alluring little balconied restaurant lining the street 
overlooking the quays came forward. Barelieaded, 
graj^-bearded, gray-eyed, our host had rather the look 
of a clever provincial lawyer, or governmental official, 
than the owner ol' the little tables fluttering their 
table-cloth banners above us. 

He solicitated our custom with warmth; and such, 
I take it, is the very best of methods of winning either 
customers or a lady's hand. 

*' Bully — this — hey, Jack? Ladies, this is fine!" 

11)5 



VV THE Sl<:iNK TO TTli: lUTTLKFTELDfl 

Oiir lI(Mil(Mi.-inl wns []\c man of our I wo I'iIcmkIs for 
rsliinal ini;' llu> Inir \aliu> of \i\\c (Jolliir spires or a 
balcimy oNiMlookiiii^' !lio rJAcr. 

"I say, ina'aiii. can you ask liiin if lie can .i;i\(* us 
all a oocklail? INlarliui or Ashury Park, il's all our 
to uie— so T i^vl il," our ilarker frieud shot forth, 
willi eyes llial ^lowod al llio prosjuvl of llio lioi)o of 
bciu^ ^ralKiod. 

The clevcM'-vIsancd man who shouhl have heen a 
lawyer ha.d served AnuMJeaiis before. An "Ashury 
l*ark" was si ill an uukuowu, as \c\ au nuheard-of 
uiixlure lo Caudelxx'-cMi-Caux. Hul for Ihe su|)i)ly- 
iui;- of the INlarliui [hcvc \\as uo lu\silaliou: "(\'r- 
iaiu( uuMd, uiou I/ieuleuaul, daus ([Ui'hpuvs iuslauls," 
was Ihe quick rej)ly. 

Willi ihe sw'fl descenl of the eoeklail, our dear 
American Imy he was si ill really a hoy— heal an 
ocslalic lalloo on Ihe lahle. The djirk eyes now 
wer(> j.'lowiny: (Irehalls; llu> l»rou/.<Ml clu>eks wer<' 
liul(>d with a faiul (lush. All Ihe rich sap of Ihe 
uuspcMil youlh in Ihe great Iramc was mounliug' lo 
ai'claiui his couleul. 

"Ladies, you've sav(Hl our lives! This is gr(>al ! 
As good a eoeklail as I can gel in S(\illle- and Ihe 
ouiehM" (he pronouu<'ed il "oudel") — "some oudel ! 
jusi sw iuuuiug in bul ler. 

"Jack- 1 say — Ihiuk c)f wlial those hoys will say 
when we tell ihem tlie luck we're in? (Jolly! won't 
they whine!" 

Tlu^ envy of those who were to "whine," who were 

iiol luMH' to share our gay lilll(> meal, secMued lo sea- 

iixi 



Till-: IIOAI) TO ('AIII)KI{I':(' AN ADVKNTIIHK 



sou I lie <lisli('S willi ;i, simcc |K'<iiIi;iily lo our lii^iKr.s 
l.isU*. I''iii;illy \\v Icjiriicd \\\v rc.isoii of I licir jiihiln- 
lioii. r\)iir of IIkmm, ;i.II oI' om* lorcc, luul lind Icmvc 
lo ^'o down lo IhiN'n' hy c.ir. 'V\ic cur, liovvcvcr, li.ul 
l>rok(Mi (lovvii n.l Ivoinii. "Uollcii old lliin^' ;i,ll oul, 
of i('|i.iiv. I''i()iil spring' broke Im fore wcM iii;i<!<' Icii 
kilomclds." Tlic ;iiiloriioInl«', llicivroic, vv;is l;i,l>ori- 
oiisly l.ikcM \ku']\ lo lloiicii ii.iid li.uidcd oA (>r lo llic 
inilihiry ;iiil lioillics. 'riic I wo olliers IkkI decided 
lo <fo lo Havre by Iraiii. 

"Nol we we'd been jo/^T^iii;^' aIon<^' over liils 
blessed connlry I ill we were sickened of Mains. 
Camels would iia.\'e la.keu you <|uieker. (^ueer 
couulry, l^'raiice. Seems us il' she's si nek lasl, in ;i 
rul, a,I>oiil a, hundred years ago, and was saLisIied Lo 
slay Ihere." 

"Well, we'd made uj) our minds lo lour il, down 
to Lhe ship. So we ;^'ol I his lil I le bus, and speed sh<' 
does, I'll say llial Tor her. IT we ha,<ln'l ^ol losi and 
any one had underslood us, we'd have iosi all (his 
uu' been Ihere by Ihis lime. " 

As succnieni dish su(!(;eeded succulcul <llsli, llur 
talk warmed lo more personal inlima.cy. There was 
an excelleiil bollle of dry Haul, SaiMcrne lo laciliLale 
coni'essiou. There was also lhe \\'\<^\\ i-a,u((ue voices 
l)r()ceedin;4" i'rom lhe markel-slaJIs liiiiii/^' lhe ((iiays, 
lo f4'i\'e oiu' lillle parly lhe sense of a. |)ecidia.r in- 
limacy. I<\)r one Ihin;^', we all si)ea,king "lhe 
lan^Mia|,^e," as LieulcnanI Oscar kepi repealing, as 
I hough il were a, sacrosa,n<-l binding of lies. And so 
il is. The men's |)]ua,seology and ours were, a.l leasl, 
1 1 ^'<>^ 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

two thousand miles apart. But whatever their line- 
age, or however different their manner of speech, 
we were all of one country, we spoke the same 
tongue, and we understood that deeper language 
still — the one that needs no translation nor trans- 
lator, since it is the voice of the American soul. 

It sometimes seems as though if certain of our 
brothers — more often our sisters in the favored East 
— had lost their souls through too lavish gifts of the 
gods of wealth and plenty, our Western compatriots 
had found theirs. 

At a certain turn the talk took, over our coffee, 
I found my v/ords choking me; there was a mist 
before my eyes. The way Oscar spoke of his mother 
was the more moving because of the perfect nat- 
uralness in which he conveyed his feeling for her. 

Oscar had come over to my side; we had squared 
our chairs to look forth the easier on the busy scene 
below. The good cheer had heightened the young 
man's beauty, as it had loosened the rivets of a 
certain self-contained restraint. He fixed his eyes 
on an old woman trundling a big load of potatoes. 

"Lord! how they work their women here! See 
that poor old thing! It makes one ache to see her," 
he cried out. I ventured to suggest the loss of man- 
power, the one and a half million dead and wounded, 
the wrecked parts of France where every available 
man was needed. 

"Yes — oh yes, I know! I've seen it all. I know. 
It's awful, though, the sufferings of women over here. 
Why — in our country — no man 'd stand for it." 

198 



THE ROAD TO CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

I made him go on. I felt certain he would yield 
to my urging. I was eager to learn the mystery of 
that face of his — of his delicate, considerate ways 
with women, and of his sympathy for suffering. 

"Yes — you're right — I've had a good mother — 
the best. You see, we're a large family — there's 
six of us boys — and one girl. Father's had luck, 
out there in Washington state. And so have we. 
Between us all, we hold about four thousand acres. 
Our sheep and cattle have good grazing-land." 

"But servants — what do you do for help.?^ Your 
mother.'^" 

A new kind of smile parted the perfectly curved 
lips. "Oh-h, mother — she don't work. We don't 
let her do nothing. Why, there's six of us, as I told 
you, and all healthy and strong. There's always 
two or three of us around. She's done her share. 
She brought us up. We don't let her work." 

"You're all good cooks, then — " 

"Well, there's a difference." And the young giant 
laughed till his body shook. "Guess you wouldn't 
want to eat Fred's mixtures. He's the worst! We 
let him feed the pigs, and even they know what 
they're in for!" And again his convulsive laughter 
shook him. 

He needed no further prodding. The look back- 
ward to the home farm had kindled the home fires. 
He had a farm awaiting him already, he said, with 
a blush, "for her — and she's a real girl!" They were 
to be married as soon as he reached "the farm" 
—at his father's, "for she's an orphan, quite alone 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

in the world — same country her people came from 
as mother's." 

I held my breath. I felt I was on the very trail 
of the myslery. 

**And your mother came from — ?" 

"Her folks came from Italy — somewhere — 'way 
down south — in the heel, as she always says with 
a laugh; calls it 'down at heel'!" 

Italy — down at the heel. Of course, here was the 
riddle of those exquisite features made i)lain. For 
down in certain portions of (^ahihria there are still 
traditions so purely of Greek or Latin origin that 
old marriage customs, old ways of burial, classic 
dances — such out-of-dale customs are still in vogue. 
This transmitted injieritance of a remote Greco- 
Latin race might explain the perfectly cut features. 
But the frame — that Herculean, yet graceful shape? 

As the young man kept on, telling of his moonlight 
rides across the great stretches of country, another 
clue was given. "Father's people, you see, coming 
from the far north, from Sweden — he likes trees. 
And so we've planted no end." 

It was all made clear. This union of strength and 
beauty was the heritage from the north and south, 
from Swedish prowess and Greco-Roman transmis- 
sion of purity of type. America, however, its soul 
and its sympathetic qualities, had put its seal on 
her son. Oscar was American, in feeling, in chiv- 
alric sentiment, and in tenderness, as in his pos- 
session of that saving salt of humor, so peculiarly 
an American trait, 

200 



THE nOAD TO CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

Of the war, or of his part in his Argonne experi- 
ences, Oscar was singularly reticent, llis Croix de 
Guerre witli its many stars attested his exploits. 
The record of this, his more recent past, he appeared 
to have wiped off memory's slate. 

*' Awful — yes — it was awful. But we won out," 
was as much as he would say when we touched on 
the war, on our part and his, in the great, the stu- 
pendous struggle. 

I have seen the same reluctance in others of our 
soldiers to dwell on battles and the horrors they had 
passed through. The pride and glory in their own 
participation in this greatest of modern wars will 
come later. Distance will give its right perspective 
to each individual effort. The Anglo-Saxon in- 
stinctive shrinking from obtruding personal feats of 
courage will yield to the enhancing effects of time 
and its glorifying vision. 

Ill 

I perceived my young friend lost nothing of the 
busy scene of the stage set just below us. His blue 
eyes followed the Caudebecoise belles, in their 
bright jerseys, tight skirts, and bare necks and arms. 
Caudebec had adopted the modernized "lyaek-to- 
nature" fashions. Older, more rural customs held 
good in the bared heads and in the banding together 
of these strolhng girls. Linked arm-in-arm, by groups 
of six and seven, these maidens chatted and laughed; 
some could be heard humming a tune as they passed 
along the booths. 

201 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

"Some girls, hey, ma'am! I reckon they're lone- 
some, some of 'em. Ain't no boys around — not 
many. Too bad! Mostly old ones one sees now all 
about." 

Oscar's pity, all-embracing though it was, did not 
carry him to the point of attempting to enliven the 
maidens in their "lonesome" walk. 

The owners of the dusty automobiles, cars of a 
before-the-war character, rattling, unpainted, and 
with road-worn tires, these provincial comers to the 
fair were indeed all old or middle-aged. The men 
would climb out of their seats, take off their dingy 
cover-coats, help a wife or a mother to descend, 
and then, having steadied the car against a stone 
parapet alining the shore, would leave the car un- 
protected. Some ten or fifteen were thus aban- 
doned. Oscar had his reflections to make on as 
commendable a proof of Norman honest}'. 

"They're an honest lot, these people. But at a 
bargain — golly! — they'd cheat a Jew, or a Scotch- 
man. Squeeze you! They'd squeeze the life out 
of a i)awnbroker!" 

"Yes," I replied, "the Normans are the most 
grasping of all others in France. There is, however, 
a survival of a curious sense of lionesty among them. 
Tliose golden bracelets Rollo hung on the tree — " 
I began. 

"Golden bracelets? That's a new wrinkle. Never 
heard of that." And I must tell the story of Rollo's 
hanging of this jewel on the tree, in this Normandy of 
twelve centuries ago, this his own dominion, and 

202 



THE ROAD TO CAUDEBEC— AN ADVENTURE 

one he proposed to rule in honest ways, thus teach- 
ing his "i)irates" tlie first rule governing civih'zed 
men. Oscar listened to my tale as nn'ght a child, with 
the same still, rigid pose, with the same intent, fixed 
gaze. When I finished he sighed. 

"It's great — that story. And it's great, too, to 
be educated. That's what's hard to get out where 
we are. Father would have sent some of us to col- 
lege. Mother was willing, though then, when wc 
were poorer, it meant a lot more work. But none 
of us went. Wc weren't educated enough to know 
all it meant. Wc know, now it's too late." The great 
blue eyes looked away from the life that was play- 
ing out its part below us. What did they see, 
those deep pools of light? Long, wide stretches of 
billowy grain and grass-lands. The wild dashes, 
across un tilled fields, on bronco ponies, to round 
up flocks and herds? The swift, sharp air cutting 
across treeless plains — was this free, fierce wind 
striking its notes above the noisy Norman voices? 
Whatever the words he had uttered had conjured 
up, of scenes and of lost chances in life, the vision 
left my new friend pensive. 

The moment's pause gave me also time for reflec- 
tion. Surely there is a higher education which our 
American life instils, and which one would not ex- 
change for all the curriculum of the most renowned 
universities. It is this flowering of sympathy, this 
amazing understanding, this quick, clear insight; but 
above all else it is the chivalric feeling and sentiment 
toward women, children, and suft'cring humanity, 

203 



UP TIIK SKTNK TO TIIK lUTTLlCFIKLDS 

wliich makes our j^o down on one's kne(\s in <;nililu(k> 
for liaving boon horn in a kind wJioro snok virlnos are 
onf!;on<k'ro(k It is ilus ('oni])roli(Mision llial "all iko 
world is kin" ikal slirnnl llio soul of Ainorioa in our 
rooonl w;ir. In nil liisU)ry llioro is no |)a|;o so bright, 
so glorious as I ha I ono our dear land oan insoribo — 
whon Aniorioa souii-slarvod ilsoll", as a nation, tjiat 
sho nn'ght I'ihhI tho world. 11' you can nialoli as 
hunKinil;u'i;iii nil act, in all tho long ri'0(»rd ol' man's 
(K'ods, 1 know it not. 

This d(>ar boy bosido mo was, tlioii>foro, indood 
"odnc-atod" in tho jiighor, dot^por souso ol' tlio iiu>aii- 
ing we slionld gi\'o to such training. JIo and thou- 
sands liko him brought to k'ranoo not only tho 
miraculous liolp ol' thoir courage aiul daring — the 
courage and daring tliat IioIjxmI to gain tho groat 
Vaclory; they brought to Ihis older race sonu>thiug 
won more i)reoious. Chivalry ha.d not <liod with 
the eight thousand nobles who perished al tho battle 
ol' Aginoourt; it had crossotl the Allaiilie. Some- 
thing ol' all this 1 said to Oscar, and also this: 

"Al Aiitiin, oiu'o (Cesar's capital, two lliousaud of 
our soldiers (1\I. l^.'s) wcvc slatioiie<l in llio Hur- 
gundiaii town for over two years. 

"'When tlu\v loft,' an inhabitant of the town told 
me, last summer, 'Ihoro was all the town to see ijioin 
oil', lining the slrc>ets. Old men and young, and all 
of us woinou, we were all in tears. And tho children, 
too. l^>r there was not one of us who had m)t 
roooived some kindness, help of some kind from those 
wonderful men — -cos lionunes nuMVoillenx. If the 



TlIK ROAT) TO CAUOKIiEC— AN ADVENTUUE 

AiHcrlciiiis iiicl an old muii or n woniun ulon^" Iho 
road, coiuiii^' lo market, or a lililc ^iil or l)oy, Llicy 
always slowed down ;uid look llu-iii in. And every 
child ill Aul im liad candy, and many of us wlio hadn't, 
s(>en wliilc (lour since Llie war had our weekly gifls 
in Iheir while bread. And if our I)al)ies were sick, 
ihe American major would come, if our good French 
major was away. Oh, we loved your soldiers! We 
shall never forge! Ihem. C'elaienL de vrais genLil- 
honimes.'" 

On recounting this tribute lo Oscar as con<luct 
which seemed to me proof of a very remarkable 
educalion, his quick answer came: 

"Oil yes, mosl of our men, I ihink, was prelfy 
(h'cenl. 15ul being civil ain't book-learning. An' 
tlial's what counts." 

Is it, indeed? '"^I'lie Im])orlant res])ecl in regard 
to travel was" (is) "with respect to its advantages 
to one's country."^ Oscar, thougli he knew it not, 
will have conlimied his true "educalion," though it 
be not "book-learning," in this great school lo which 
he has been, of war and travel, lie and thousands 
of others will bring countless advantages from their 
terrible and yet glorious experiences, both as war- 
riors and as travelers, to that distant Far West — to 
their own country. 

* Louis Einstein, llalian Uinaismtucf in Eiujlaitd. 



CHAPTER XIII 



CAUDEBEC 



'1^7'ITH the departure of our compatriots, there 
' ' was a sensible drop in the emotional tem- 
perature. The air seemed to have lost its quicken- 
ing. A certain vibratory force was gone from the 
scene and the atmosi)here. 

A steamboat of somewhat familiar outlines aroused 
us from oiu' nursery state of lament. The boat, 
white in color, not over-large, its decks black with 
its cargo of passengers, was sweeping past Caudebec 
with the insolent air of ignoring the fact that Caude- 
bec was a port. 

Could it be our own boat for Rouen — the one we 
had incontinently deserted? A voice at our elbow 
left us in no doubt as to our tragic fate. 

"Mais oui, Madame, it is the boat to Rouen. But 
you see it did not stop, as there were no passengers." 

"But — but — it doesn't stop? It goes on? and 
yet we were officially told — by the captain the boat 
stopped at Caudebec," was gasped, such perfidy 
seeming unbelievable in any man wearing a uniform. 

206 



CAUDEBEC 

"Yes — the boat stops — Madame, when there are 
passengers," cahnly reiterated the restaurant- 
keeper. 

Seeing consternation still holding us fast, he added, 
as though to hold out a beacon of hope: "If ces 
dames wish to take the boat on its next trip, perhaps 
these ladies will give me warning — in time." 

On further consultation it appeared, though 
Caudebec was a port officially, in point of exact 
fact the river current ran too swiftly to permit of 
the Havre boat making a landing. "One embarks 
sometimes over there — in a small boat — or over 
yonder." Our host pointed to various landing- 
places along the docks. 

The situation now assumed a humorous aspect. 
Here was a boat, the one and only means of com- 
munication, by the most beautiful river in France, 
between two great ports — between Havre and Rouen! 
That there might be no waste of time or coal, no 
passengers meant no stop. How was the traveler to 
learn such secrets of maritime economy? No single 
guide-book warned the ignorant or unwary of so 
important a fact. On the whole water-front of 
Caudebec no signal or sign conveyed so important a 
warning to native or foreigner. 

This river traffic was conducted, apparently, on 
the principle that time was best spent when lost; 
that to miss a boat, to wait for forty-eight hours 
until the same boat should recommence the same 
eccentric, irresponsible antics, was a matter of no 
consequence, since the belated traveler had all 

207 



VV THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Cuuclobcc, Sl.-W;iii(lrillc, Le Trait, Juinic^vs, and 
Duc'lair as comi)ensalions. 

Wo wore not so dull Ijiat we coidd not aceoi)t a gUt 
of such ani])liludo, of such promise of onjoyniont. AVe 
liad boon surprised; we had even Lurned wilh indig- 
nation, feeling wo had been Iroaclieronsly deal I with. 
AVe now look the broad hint ehanee <^a\'e us. AAo 
proeooded lo enjoy ourselves ])rodi^iously. 

Two full, long days! And with whal a eounlry lo 
exi)loro! AAV started forlh in a rush of recovered 
s])irils to find Caudebee's charius ininu^isurably 
enhanced. 

The market, lo begin wilh what was inuncHlialely 
set before us, was in all the flutter of tearing oif its 
finery. It was jn-ocooding to show us every rib, so 
to speak, of its naked ajialomy. It was, in some 
way, as uninteresting a j)erforina.uce as when a si out 
woman, on ihe stage, ])ersisls in taking off her gown. 
Here, at least, we enjoyed the advantage of being 
able to turn our backs on the performance. 

AA\^ left the scene of the quays, strewn with 
boards, with iron ])oles, with women ])iliug heavy 
baskets into dee]) wagons, and men winding ribbons 
and folding laces away, with fingers as dexterous as 
a woman's. The uses to which husbands may be 
l)ut have never been fully grasped by tlie Anglo- 
Saxon spouse. It is only the Latin woman who, with 
clear-sighted, sociological instinct, once launchetl on 
the matrimonial venture, quietly decides which of 
the two is beller lilted to carry on the various 
branches life a ih'ii.v develops. 

£08 



CAUDEBRC 

The Frenchwoman, for long centuries, has been 
an unconscious factor of labor-saving force. If her 
IiontiNC l)e I he stronger, iJie more eupjiblc of (he I wo, 
linked logcUier us Ihey are to fight life's hulllc, the 
French wife subsides; she accepts and "makes good" 
hcv pluce as second, in the slruggle for success. But 
if slic discovers ii weakling in Ihe man the dot system 
has allotted her, then us nnulressc foiunc it is she who 
rules — and her husband winds ribbons and laces, 
while she tosses baskets or In^avy boards, weighing 
kilos, into great carts. 

II 

There were so many nlluring side-shows, so io 
speak, at ('audebec that we found a certain difliculty 
in immediately reaching its chief, its supreme, 
attraction. 

I'here were streets that took the unmistakable 
curves of streets which had been girdled by stout 
walls. They were narrow, tortuous, with the be- 
guiling air of wandering, now, unhindered into the 
oi>en country. 

La rue de la Boucherie offered tempting discover- 
i<\s. Among lines of houses old enough to reward 
any search after aniiquilies, there were two that were 
ancestors of all the others. Built of stone, with 
narrow slits for windows, these wonderful survivors 
of Caudebec's wars and sieges had known what life 
in the fifteenth century was like. Other dwellings, 
with wooden facades, with here and there a sculpt- 
ured door-lintel or a window-frame embroidered 

209 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

with rude, defaced flowers, such sixteenth and 
seventeenth century houses made of every street in 
Caudebec the true presentment of the town as it 
appeared in those now remote centuries. 

The charm of this Old Workl reahty was enhanced 
by the singular calm Caudebec preserves. Now that 
the market was closed, there was a curious, brooding 
silence in the streets. Sabots' clicking snap on the 
stone-paved thoroughfare — and then all would be 
still. The hour would strike from unseen clocks, in 
thin, strident voices — voices still telling the time to 
ears long since dead, they seemed. Ours were the 
only footfalls in the street leading to the curiously 
interesting, ancient-featured Place d'Armes. 

We had the Place to ourselves — we and the old 
houses and the uprising, the amazingly beautiful, 
church spire. It was an uncovenanted piece of pure 
luck to liav^e captured the famous si)ire at this dis- 
tance and from just this point of view. Thus 
seemingly detached from its base, its florescent 
coronal rising skyward, the full glory of its sumptuous 
carvings, its lofty height, and its taj)ering grace were 
thus intensified, outlined against a sky whose blues 
were like unto a solid curtain of velvet. One looked 
and looked, and never could one weary of so com- 
pletely enrapturing a spectacle. 

To tear the eyes away, and to seek lesser, dimin- 
ished sensations, was a concession made to the reall}^ 
alluring features of the Place d'Armes. One might 
have thought the houses, set about in such casual 
fashion, had been thus built lo form what all the 

21U 



CAUDEBEC 

world now travels to look upon — a picturesque 
groiii)ing. 

There was a house abutting on the Place that came 
to a point; there were others that slid away, showing 
a timbered side, a low wooden door, and chimneys 
old enough to know better than to topple over tiled 
roofs as steep as an Alpine coasting-hill. 

All these old streets led us finally to the central 
Caudebec jewel — to the northern end of the church. 

I have no hesitation in stating that to stand before 
til's architectural triumph is, in itself, enough to 
reward one for a journey up the Seine. A regalia 
insignia of royal magnificence do these sculptures 
seem. Why should the word "royal" — such a truly 
beautiful word — be used solely to define what apper- 
tains to the accident of lineage .f* Surely men who 
could design and execute so noble a structure as this 
Caudebec church are crowned — doubly crowned, 
since, for long centuries, men have bowed in homage 
to their genius. 

From the mellow face of the great spire the eye is 
carried on to the elaborate traceries of the windows: 
from these one's gaze is fixed on all the delicate, in- 
tricate carvings that make the spire rise up like 
wrought lace-work, transfixed, by some miracle, to 
the solidity of stone. France, in this, its finest spire 
save one. La Tour de Beurre, at Rouen, carries its 
hlies to the altar of the skies, since some of the 
traceries are in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. 

There are other revealing notes by which the 
carvers have confessed their labors were not done 

211 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BxVTTLEFlELDS 

merely for the clay's pay; there were love and piety 
expressed, as well as grace and novelty of design, 
in the long parapet about the roof; these traceries 
are an invocation to the Virgin, cut in stiff but 
ornamental Gothic letters. 

After three centuries of Gothic invention, archi- 
tects were forced to devise more and more elaborate 
designs. The flamboyant of the fifteenth century 
is here merged into the Renaissance architectural 
style. Pugin will have it that much of the orna- 
mental part of the church, its windows and carvings, 
belong rather to the domestic than to an ecclesiastical 
order of architecture. 

The church indeed was finished during the reign 
of Francis I, when the floridity of the Renaissance 
was becoming the great fashion in building. But 
the Renaissance ornamentation does not in the least 
affect the general design. There is true Gothic unity 
and harmony in tlie church, as a whole. 

The great front portal is, or was, an open book by 
which the laity could read their Bible history in a 
language not dead, but in the living language of the 
illustrated, sacred story. Now that most of the 
saints, the apostles, and the heavenly hierarchy are 
headless, the biblical grouping and meaning must be 
guessed. The wealth of carving, however, lavished 
on every inch of this exterior proves that neither 
time nor patience was valued, as socialists have 
decided labor should be in our days. With the mul- 
tiplicity of books, the muUii)licity of sacred statues 
is as reduced a population on church fronts as statis- 

212 




CHURCH OF NOTKK DAME AT CAUDEBEC 



CAUDEBEC 

tics prove the birth-rate has fallen off since tlic 
preaching of the doctrine of Malthus. Every 
cliurch, the sinii)lest as well as the most elaborate, is 
the more precious, therefore, since there is no re- 
lighting the tapers of faith that produced Norman 
and Gothic masterpieces. 

The beautiful geometric design of the rose-winaow, 
below the roof, on the western front, sends one into the 
interior of the church to see the much-praised glass. 

On entering the side porch one is impressed at 
once by the singular lightness and brilliancy of the 
interior. The genial glow from the beautiful stained- 
glass windows permeates the whole edifice. 

It may be because the figures, motives, and com- 
l^osition of the figures in these charming windows are 
nearer to our own era than the earlier thirteenth- 
century glass; whatever the reason, these figures are 
peculiarly appealing. In color many of the windows 
are extraordinary. There are combinations of deep 
orange, yellows, and blues, also of purples and blues 
that produce unusual polychrome effects, giving to 
the side aisles and nave the gaiety one might look 
for in a Renaissance banqueting-hall rather than in 
a sacred edifice. 

The singular and original })erspective in the Lady 
Chapel has always excited the curiosity of architects, 
its peculiar construction having been a matter of 
discussion for some centuries. The Entombment of 
Christ is chiefly interesting as proving the contrast 
between the earlier sculptural and more modern 
work. Christ's figure is expressive and full of feeling. 
15 21^ 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

III 

It is said that Caiidcbec is, and has been for long 
years, an irresistible magnet to draw our English 
cousins to delight in its attractions. "C'est le rendez- 
vous des Anglais en e/e," a native of Caudebee said to 
me, with a smile, and there was an anticipatory 
glitter of hope in his bright eyes. He was counting 
the sous that would pour into his till when the 
tourist season began. 

There are the best of reasons for English lovers of 
beauty bending their steps toward Caudebee. We 
have ever a sentimental leaning for that which we 
once owned. 

Caudebee, after a resistance of only six days, in 
1419, gave herself up to the English, and began her 
reign as a fortified English stronghold. She became 
French again only after Charles VII, having been 
taught how to fight for his kingdom by a woman — a 
girl, rather — was able to rescue this part of his do- 
main from English ownership. The historians re- 
cord "a solemn entry into the town of Caudebee 
by the French king." 

It is well for us, in these hectic days succeeding the 
most scientifically w^aged war of all history, with 
northern France and most of Belgium the all but 
ruined victims of German systematized, destructive 
design, to remember what befell France in that 
fifteenth century. 

Henry V of England may be likened in a certain 
sense to Kaiser William. He was a far greater man 

214 



CAUDEBEC 

than the German Emperor — out he, as did William, 
meant to own France, and to crush her, if necessary. 
In point of character Henry had far more traits in 
common with William the Conqueror than with 
William the Runaway. At seventeen Henry was 
already a dreaded leader of men and of armies. He 
first subdued his own subjects to his rule; he then 
turned to crush out French intrigues with the 
Lancastrian House. 

First, Henry captured Harfleur. This key to the 
Seine led the way to all the rich Norman lands — • 
with Rouen as its richest prize, with Paris and Calais 
beyond. All of these great possessions, in the end, 
were his — with eleven thousand of the nobles of 
France dead, most of them left rotting on the slimy 
field of Agincourt. 

Caudebec, as we have seen, was one of the earlier 
captures of English prowess. The town was greatly 
fortified; it became an English stronghold with its 
walls, towers, ramparts, and moats. 

When Charles VH was able, during his long reign 
of thirty-two years, to see his France freed from Eng- 
lish rule and English terrors, in what a state of waste, 
of devastation, was he to find his all but ruined 
kingdom! Normandy, that had been to England 
what Egypt had been to Rome — its granary of 
abundance — had been despoiled, ravished of its 
women and children, its strong men dead of famine, 
or forgotten in prison dungeons, or deported to 
England, were they skilled workmen. 

This lovely, prosperous Pays de Caux, the province 

215 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

of all these rieli and flourishing Norman towns and 
cities, had been despoiled of men and of moneys to 
the point that hungry wolves were the armies that 
succeeded the armies of the English conqueror. 

Henry, having won Paris in a single day, and 
Rouen only after its superb resistance of six months, 
died in Ms Chateau de Vincennes, in August, 1422. 
On his death-bed he bade his great chiefs never to 
give up Normandy. 

Caudebec must wait twenty-seven years for its 
deliverance. Once more Norman and French, and 
Norman energy, Norman vigor, Norman enterprise 
sprang to force their way to prosperity once more. 
In an incredibly short time Caudebec's hats and 
gloves had won the prize for excellence in the 
European markets. 

Caudebec still sits, in high noon, under the rich 
Normandy sunshine, with now fewer attractions 
than in those turbulent days when she was a citadel, 
a capital important enough to make men love her, 
suffer for her, and with great captains and kings 
fighting for her possession. 

But her stock of drawing-attractions is still poten- 
tially important. She is still the complete little town, 
with her streets embellished with authentic four- 
teenth-, fifteenth-, and sixteenth-century houses — 
houses which witnessed the "solemn entry" of 
Charles VII; houses through whose narrow windows 
the existent citizens stood, cheering till they were 
hoarse the beloved king who was the first demo- 
cratic king since Henri IV practised what his alter 

216 



CAUDEBEC 

ego. Sully, had promulgated as a principle, "Chacun 
chez soi, Chacun pour soi.'^ 

The old curving streets, the antique houses, are 
the survivors of wars, sieges, dynasties, the Revo- 
lution, the Terror, Waterloo, Sedan, and the great 
war. As ancestors hand on to their descendants a 
treasured, ancestral i)ossession, old Caudebec trans- 
mits to us the jewel of her church. 



CIIArXER XIV 



A GREAT ABB A YE — ST.-WANDRILLE 



T^lIE nioniiiig ol' our (loparliire Iroiii Ciiiidoboc was 
-■■ one of those festival days of summer which make 
one believe in the value, in the immense importance 
of being alive. Every act, the least as well as the 
gravest, seemed to assume porlentous proportions. 
There was before us the joy of setting out, of going 
forlh once more to unknown parts of la douce France. 
The tune of life and the day were to sing in concert. 
"You have a beautiful day for your journey, 
Mesdames," said our courteous host. If it be true 
that the art of living is understood nowhere as it 
is in France, it is also equally true that good manners 
are still to be met along French roads and in inns 
that are "far from the great world.'' 

Our host was offering us not only his gracious 
courtesy; he was placing his intelligence at our dis- 
posal. Having learned we proi)osed to make a day 
of it — a whole long day in the oi)en air — "Then, 
INIadame, you had best take a luncheon along. 
There is no good restaurant until you reach Duclair. 

218 



A GllbLVT ABBAYE— ST.-WANDllILLl-: 

And us llioso hidics do not count tlic hours by llic 
clock wlien tlicy :ire visilinj^ old houses and fine 
churches—" The clever innkeeper never finished 
his sentence. His meaning smile and his (luick eyes, 
tliat had conveyed more than he said, told us he 
knew more of our ways than could be guessed by 
the more or less revealing fact of the day and night 
spent under his roof. If you have a secret to keep, 
if you desire to cloak your ways, or your hal>ils, 
or even your tastes, do not i)rolong your stay in a 
French provincial town. Tliere are no eyes sharper, 
ther(^ is no scent more keen in hounding secrecy to 
earlh, there is no one who has the lay detective's 
talent more highly developed than a clever pro- 
vincial in a lillle, dull French town. Where nothing 
hiippens that is not known in an hour to every one 
every stranger is a "suspect" unless he comes under 
the welcome guise of a traveler. 

It was for an increase, indeed, in the regiment of 
Ic fouriste qui Vtn^f^c that our interesting host was now 
sighing. He had openly confessed that he saw us 
depart with regret. He was buoyed up, howevei-, 
he quickly added, by the hiflated hope of our return 
"next year and with many more Americans." 

"You see, Madame," he proceeded to explain, 
with his engaging air of sincerity, "it is only the 
Americans who can really heli) us." Il was our turn 
to smile a meaning smile. It was translated as being 
a smile of pridt^— pride that held in it the virtue of 
a pronu'se. "Yes — once the Americans come then 
France will begin to live again. To Germany they 

iVJ 



UP THE SKINE TO 111 E lUTILEFTELDS 

will not go. No. To where, ilieu? To us — to 
Fniiiee lliey will eome. A lillle linve iliey m;iy s])eiid 
in Kn<4l;in(l, ])(Mvlva.|)s, bul il is here — in our heauliful 
country tluit luis heen so oulra;;(Ml - so r<ivishe(l — 
it is here wluTe their own Anierieun soldiers have 
fought they will come. The car will sliake her less 
if it he i)lace(l thus." 

It was to a (lusty, gohleu-luied botlle our kind 
host referred, and not to (Mther of us, the forerun- 
ners of ihe lourisl horde who were lo save France. 

The paiuslaking owner of the inn had heen as 
careful of our comfort as though he felt that every 
delicate attention he could pay us was to be in tlie 
nature of an advertisement of Ihe "good-wine-that- 
needs-no-busli" order lo all Auierlca.. He luul seen 
to the S(>eure ])Ia('iug of the fnii luncheon-baskel ; 
he had blocked llie bollle of wine belween a bag and 
a suit-case; and Jie had handled the bottle as though 
it were an infant in arms — as do all men who know 
good wine. Having paid us such parting courtesies, 
and having as delicately conveyed lo us our mission 
in life — for the conu'ng year -there Avas nolhing left 
for the most i)erfect of hosts than to make us his 
farewell salute. It was given in finished French form 
— from the waist. 

'*We luive left a bit of old IVance beliind us," I 
sighed. 

"And look — it might have been the boat on which 
Madame Sevigne crossed the Loire three hundred 
years ago." 

The hac crossing from the op])osil(» slion* might 



A GREAT ABBAYE— S'P.-WANDRTT.LE 

indeed luive elaimed aiieeslral dcsceiil from tliosc 
diligences a Vcau lliat look (lji;y's Lo curry the Lraveler 
from (owns reached, in onr <lay, in a lew hours. 

Tlie barge now nearing llie Caudebec sliores was 
carrying two char-d-hancs, one laden with pigs, 
the other with hens in coops, peasants, a baby in a 
j)erambulator, a liuge touring-machine with two 
English ofhcers, and a cart with a towering mound 
ol' ha}'. Yes, eliminalc ihe automobile and per- 
ambulator, or change them into one of Ihe seven- 
teen! h-century carriages, with their huge wheels, 
nudliple s])rings, pockets, silken curtains, and deep, 
feal her- tufted seats, and to a court lady of Louis 
XIY's reign there would have been no "novelty" 
to talk about in Paris in thus crossing the Seine in 
a barge with a tortoise-like speed.^ 



II 

In approaching the famous Abbaye of St.-Wan- 
drille — Maeterlinck's liome for many years — the road 
itself seems in collusion willi the witcluMy of tlic 
abbaye to create what our French friends so admi- 
rably define as un etal d' esprit. 

On leaving Caudebec — tluit ancient town on the 
broad highway of the Seine, a town that, in its way, 
is also a highway ])etween ihe two ])orts of Rouen 
and Havre — and on entering I lie hitle secluded 

' For luiloinohilists dcsiriiif^ lo lake to the roiul lo rcjifli cillior 'J^roii- 
villc, I)(;iiivill<', or CiK'ii, hy this Ixic oik- can join llic Iiif,'liroiuI at I'onl- 
AikIcmk r, skirtinf^ llii- o(lf,'<' of llic Hnloniic forest, along the Seine 
allures. It is one of the most beaiilifnl roads in Norimuuiy. 



li|» IMI': SKFNK TO Till': RAnM<:FIi:M)S 



lininl(>l ol" Sl.-Wnndrillc, oik* luis I lie scnsjilioii of 
liaviii^" i);iss('cl hoiw a scriio i)iilsaliii^^ willi lil'c lo 
Olio nioro or loss dead and inuniinalo. Prcsorvod, as 
ll wiM'c, under ,i;lass as a. model for a sctMie-paiiiler 
or a noxclisl in search of a siMlin*^: for a. crime or an 
elojxMnenl, I lie lionses of \\]c liainlel are <^al]ier(>d 
close lou'clher, as liioiii;li for |)iii|»oses of prol<M-lion, 
or possiMy for conspiracy. 

A «^i(\'il porlal looms inlo view, lis arms, ils 
de<'l)-A'aiilled iMilrance, ils I wo jiaA ilions, and ils 
liirrels ris(> up willi sin.n'nlar impressi\'eness. Siieli 
a. porlal wonld ^ive U) any road a urand air. Only 
princes, in all llie splendor of llieir ])Iiimes and 
slaslied tloiihlels, monnled on slalely sli^eds (one 
conid nol use I he simi)li>r nonn of "horse" lo desi^- 
iiale ;i monnl sleppin^" IxMvealh so slalely an en- 
l ranee), and Lhese shilely sleeds shonld IniAc golden 
hariu\ss(\s. 

The roa<l Ihal kee])s on, beyond lliis majeslic pile, 
proves whal a nu>re roa.d can achic've wilh a. j;ronp of 
snperl) lre(\s, il is Irne, for decora I ion. Opposile the 
<;rea.l enlraiiee lo I he Abbaye of Sl.-Wandrille 
llure is a mosi (IVeelive «;ronping of I he rear end of 
a. low Norman chnrch. 'V\\v choir windows now 
enlurgiMJ, mc were lo lind lalcM" had sonu> charmini;' 
slaiiu^l glass by Liisson. The sixleenlh-c<'iilnry 
chai)el, in I he happy selling' of old (»lins and linu'- 
Irees, made a remarkably harmonious ensenibK>. 

There was a leahir(> e\'en more allnring llian I he 
I'lVeclive grouping made by I he road, the church, ami 
the uprising graiidenr of I he abbaye enlranc(>. There 





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A (.TUIAT AimAVK-ST.-WANDniKMC 

wns ;i Iioiiu^ly look ;iI)Oiil il. iill. T1um'(» was 
sonu'llilng siirj)risingly, uncxpecledly Euglisli in (lie 
|)i('liir(\ 

Till' Iwo English hisloriiiiis, l^^vomnii aiid Gro(Mi, 
will loll you, al longlh, I he rairsnn f/W/c of corlaiii 
asjuM'ls of Frourli roads and Frciicli (iolds, and why 
Ihoy riM'jdl lo Eni;lislini«Mi England's litndscjiixvs. 
'Pile Nornijins, wlicn llu\v canio lo l^in^Iaud, hron^lit 
willi llu'ui [\ic Uvssoiis lauf^lil IIumu by llic Anj^lcs 
in I ho oarly An^lo-Saxou invasions lo (Jnul.' And 
r^-onoh historinns will (•oni])laronlly iloscjinl, in Ihoii* 
turn, on llu^ olVoclivo Kn^^lisli iinihition of |)in"<*ly 
Normandy l;inos, Norni;i,ndy hod<;<>s, iind Norman 
ways of Iroo-planliuj;', by Kn^lisji farnuM-s, lo bo soon 
in England. 

I Fore was a road and a soiling' llia.1 provt'd any 
modol historians may claim for il. I mark il as one 
unI((no in combining" bolh arlislio charm, archilocl- 
ural boauly and inUM'osl, wliilo preserving singularly 
iioMU'like fcaluros. One could build a house and 
sollle down in such snrroun<lings, and fool al liomo 
in it, all hough in a fori>ign land. 

St.-Waudrillo, as did all Iho founders of lliose 
medieval monasteries, nnisl liavo choscMi Iho silo of Iiis 
abba,ye because of sonu' such comnuMi<labK> fcM'ling. 
'Phere could be no sense of exile in so lov(>ly a,ud 
l)icturesque a spot. To insure against mouolony, 

' "As wo piiMS now lliioiifj;ii NormjiiKly il is English liislory which ih 
umund us . . . The very l<'<>k of ils coiinlry and its pooph> simmu fnniiliiir 
lo us. . . . The lirhls iihoiil ('dcii. liii-ir dense hedgerows. I heir ehus, 
llieir n|)ph- «)reiiards, are Ihe very picture of an I'jiglisii coiitilryside." 
— (Jreen, UiMori/ of llic I'hii/li.sli l'roi>lr, vol. i. p. 107. 

an 



VV TllK SKIXi: TO rilK r»ATTl,KFTELD^; 

lluMV wore the luululnlini;' liills; I'or lioUls ;nul i>nsl- 
urrs lluMv was all I ho land available from tlio ab- 
bayo inc'U>suri\s to (\uulol>oc \vi(li Caiuli4)oc itsoli". 
;it otio tiino, iindor Iho sovoivli;iit y of llio convonl. 
Tlioro was also a ccrlain socurity from i>iralos, siiuv 
iho buildings woro nol diroolly on [\\c v'wcv. AVith 
all Ihoso a«banlai;os. Iho Houoilioliuo brolhorhood 
nol only prosporod, but Ihoy waxod rioh. The 
robbor bari>ns t>f Ihal romolo olovonlh ami tho suo- 
ooodini:: oonlurios innild always ransom thoir fntnro 
from loo proU>ni;od [)nri;a.lorial disoomforls by lavish 
gifts lo a monaslory. Prinoos ami kings, as woll as 
lessor grandoos, donalod vast sums to convonls, bnill 
lluMu, and gaAo lluMn groal [)ri\iK\gos, as in i>ur day 
a lu>lhsohild or a Kookofollor omlows a t-ollogo or 
founds a lu>spilal. AVays of giving ohango with tho 
oonlurios. l>ul as "tho poor yo havo always with 
you," so it sooms aro thoro always, though novor 
onough, prinooly givors to liolp tho unilorworld to 
booomo, in timo, tho upper world. 



Ill 

A modest door, beyond whioh. in a tangle of brush- 
wood ;iud ilrooping trees, one roads the warning sign, 
"Visitors are admitted to inspool the abbaye between 
tho hours of ten and twelve, and from two to six," 
l>roduoiHl an unploasanl awakening to the faol (hat 
wo might havo nearly an hour to wail. In our 
eagerness lo havo the whole day for our ouling. we 
hud forgotten that in Franoe no one's toilet, whether 

Hi 



A GllKAT AnnAVK S'l\ WANDIM M,r. 

il he I lull of oM or yoiiii^' Iiidlcs, of old cIiiiicIkvs or 
nl)l>ayt\s, is iiiiulc l>(>lor<' Icn in I lie nioriiiii^-. 'I'liis 
imlvcrsjil cuslom (la.l<\s, 1 Iin;i,ij;iiu\ from llu> ^t.iimI 
oM Iloiirhoii <l;iys. Tlic ^rc.il world, \vlio,s(> pnssioii 
for cards and Iii<;h slakes kcpl lorchcs and candles 
Mazing' buir I lie nij^hl, miisl iiahirally i)rolon^- ils 
heanly sK^ep iiilo llie best hours of llie morning. 

Uenienihering llial n roiivcnlnal life sel an (»\an»ple 
of (piile oilier ninlnlinal cusloins, 1 holdly ran*;' I he 
I Inkling hell. If llie odor of saiielily no longer per- 
Aaded llieahhaye ruins, perhaps a lingXMing monkish 
coui'lesy mighl win us admission. 

The I inkling hell had long siiuv cimscmI Io a,gilale, 
h>el)ly, (he slill, ahhalial air. Slow, uncerlain sU'ps 
finally assunnl us I hat our a.i)pea.I was lo meel some 
sorl of answer. 'J'lie answer came, given wilh a. 
swe(>lness and genlle kindliness which iiKuk' us 
ashanuHl of luiving douhled of our receplion. '" Metis 
Old, CCS (lames soul, il est rroi. Ins inolinalcs"' — was 
the (juiel welcome. The old, dried, Ihin lips mur- 
mured, "as I am here to show visilors Ihe way a.l)oul, 
— one liour is Ihe same to me as aiiollier. If Ihe 
hidies will come (his way — " 

"This way" led us directly to a lowering archway 
of trei's. 

"You are standing in the very mi(hlle of Ihe 
church — in the nave," was the star! ling announce- 
inenl. 'I'his was assuredly a remarkably (piick 
jump, as it were, from even a romanlic highroad lo 
a church so completely deslroyed one imisl sub- 
stitute nature's arclies for the original vaulting. 

ii6 



Ur TIIK SEINE TO THE 1^\ rrEl-.Fll^KDS 

At. our lol't, ]iowever, there was a bemiliful Gothic 
ruin si ill rieh iu excjuisite carvings. 

Our gentle guide led us from this last vestige of 
the older thirteen I h-eentury elun-eh to the cloister. 

ITndtM- these fine Golliic arches it was easier for 
iniaginalion to recreate the antique splendor of Ihe 
fiinious ahbnye, of its niisly and mystic beginning in 
the year OlS; of Sl.-AYaiulrille looming out of the 
shadows of that dim i)ast, drawing hither men, 
scholars, poets, and writers turning monks to dedi- 
cate their lives to God and to ihe furthering of letters 
and, later, of science and literature. 

And yet— and yet — wliat air, in among these 
remaining proofs of St.-Wandrille's former splendor, 
were we breathing? What was ihe still, pursuing 
shadow that followed, blurring the l)right gokl of 
the sunshine? What was the burden of depression 
that seemed to have settled down upon our very 
shoulders? Whence came the melancholy we could 
not sjiake off? 

An indescribable sadness, like a pall, haunted the 
branches of the drooping trees. The grass-grown 
alleys, leading to ihe park, wore a tragic air. What 
unnamed, what umvcorded crimes liad l)een com- 
mitted here, leaving their haunting shadows to people 
so fair, yet so desolate a. realm? 

How still, how mournful is the silence! 

Though the decorating glory of ihe August sun 

descends like a cascade of light on weei)ing elms, on 

ruined shrines, and on delicate carvings, there is no 

lifting of that pall of sadness. 

sew 



A GREAT ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

Then one remembers why ghosts walk here, in 
these grounds, under all these arches of St.-Wandrille 
in eiear daylight. 

In tliis i)ulseless air Melisande has relived her 
strange, enigmatic existence. She came to life again 
in this "extraordinary stillness." The author of 
her creation heard here also the very "water sleep- 
ing." Sorrow-stricken from her birth, she who could 
not smile found herself once more a wanderer 
among "all these sad forests without light." 

One follows the fugitive, illusive creature from her 
entering, with Goland, into the ancestral chtlteau, 
to learn what love is, and to meet the cruel fate that 
awails her. 

One single night of ecstasy was hers. Yonder is 
the chateau, against which, in clear moonlight, her 
lover sees her. Iler unbound tresses sweeping the 
old walls' surface Pelleas thought was a "sunbeam," 
so golden was their color. 

*' Penche-toi, penche-toi, que je voie ies cheveux 
dcnoues,'' cries her lover. 

And woman-like, moved by this mysterious soul of 
woman that seems to typify the soul — the errant, 
wilful, mysterious breath of life that stirs the souls 
of all women — Melisande obeys. She leans farther 
and farther out, till the golden rain of her hair 
inundates her lover. As he grasps the glorious 
tresses they seem to him alive. "They quiver, they 
palpitate in my hands like golden birds." And the 
still night heard the burning kisses "along the 

thousand golden links" full like another raiji. 

iii7 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Iliilil one wanders among Ihoso wind-shaped Irees, 
until one has felt the wilehery of the inehmcholy 
that i)ervades St.-Wandrill(\ one eaimol reiiUze liow 
to a i)oe(, lo a ])laywriglil, I he whole ])lace spoke 
wilh Umgues of inspiration, Maelerllnek tnins- 
laled Ihe si>iril thai dwells in eerhiin isolated, remote 
corners of the world. St.-Waudrille is the very 
inenl)ator ol' mysticism. Never did a mystic find 
so perfect a frame In A\hleh to ])lace for ns the ])or- 
trait of the mysterions. The nii,sc-cii-scciie was set 
here, centnries ago. The chatean, the still forest, 
the very pool, the abandoned fonntain "that opens 
the eyes of the blind, " are all here. The scene was 
awaiting only the genius who could animate it with 
living souls. 

INIaeterlinck, the conjurer, is no longer here. lie 
has followed his own Blue Bird. The fresh happiness 
that has come to him would not build its nest in 
such drear surroundings. The haunting memories of 
other days, perhaps, more poignant than those of 
love and of lovers one builds on a page, would have 
been "sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh." 

Representations of both "INIacbelh" and "Pelleas 
and Melisande" were given in the ronuinlic setting of 
the abbaye cloisters, its vaulted galleries, its melan- 
choly park and chateau, during the long lease of the 
jn'operty held 1)3' INIaeterlinck. The picturescpie set- 
ting aiul slagiug of the two great i)lays were iusj)ired 
by the talent of JNIme. Georgette Leblanc, the roles 
of Lady Macbeth and Melisande being interpreted 

by her, 

lesjs 



A GREAT xVliliAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

IV 

I rouKMiiljcred to have heard tlie "witchery" of tlie 
si)ecla('le of "Macbelli," as i)hiyecl at night at St.- 
Waiidrille, extolled one winter's night in a great 
French chateau — one of Sully's chateaux — the one 
in whicli the famous minister died. The wind was 
howling as wind howls in La Beaucc; the flaming 
logs before us, that made our faces burn and yet 
could not warm our backs, so vast was the huge 
salon in which we sat, forced us to bend over the 
yawning firei)lace. These logs would blaze up every 
now and then, as a jSercer blast than common swept 
down the chimney and swirled a])out the massive 
walls, as though in hot anger at finding such great 
towers and walls in their path. 

The owner of this magnificence was a slender, 
sensitive-faced youth of twenty-two. lie was the 
child of the two centuries — of the latter end of the 
nineteenth that gave him birth and of the beginning 
of the twentieth that had formed him. He had the 
delicate shiver of responsive intensity to the mas- 
ters that ruled then in French art and letters. He 
believed in the art of Huysmans and Maeterlinck; 
in music, Debussy was his god. It was because of 
Maeterlinck he had gone to hear Georgette Le- 
blanc "do" Lady Macbeth at the famous abbaye. 

lie had forgotten, as he described the play, how 
cold "all the back of me is"; he was so intent in 
delivering his impressions of the curious, "the in- 
teresting yet strangely disappointing spectacle,'* 
16 iiu 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

that he would rise every now and then, would give 
an imitative gesture, would illustrate, with singular 
eloquence, the effects produced by certain situations 
and dialogues in Shakespeare's masterpiece. 

"You cannot imagine how it gained, yet how much 
of the beauty was lost, by seeing it not staged but 
set — set now in the cloisters, now in the open, under 
the great trees, with trembling lights touching now 
robes, now her pale face, now a bit of sculpture — 
a nymph, a satyr, or a beautiful bit of Gothic carv- 
ing, lighted up, pallid figures, raised from the dead 
of the night, only to die away into gloom, into 
nothingness." 

Half the night was spent, I remember, in listening 
to the impressions which this unforge table represent- 
ation of the famous masterpiece had made on de 
Pontoi's sensitive, poetic mind. So vivid was his 
rendering, so artistic his presentment of the scenic 
surroundings, so quick had he been to seize the 
more illusive, suggestive notes of the great play, I 
was more than ever convinced that here was indeed 
another young and gifted artist in the making. 

In going forth from the abbaye, along the road that 
beckoned, leading us up among sloping fields, shaded 
groves, and hills riding away to the blue seas of the 
skies — in following the road my mind was full of 
that dear boy, of his charm, of his gifts, and of his 
death. He gave his young life to his country. 
Not in "Flanders field," but in Alsace, at Thann, 
he lies. The charming talent that might have fol- 
lowed Maeterlinck's search for the illusive, the mys- 

230 



A GREAT ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

terious, in this world of shadows was offered up as 
his sacrifice on the altar of France, that her genius 
might pass on, as a lighted torch, to other unborn 
generations. 



The romantic story of the Marquis of Stackpool, 
one that years ago all England talked about over 
the teacups, is one inseparably linked with the beau- 
ties and the ruins of the abbaye. 

Charmed by the melancholy and the pathetic 
abandonment of St.-Wandrille, the marquis bought 
the grounds and buildings. Lover of architecture, 
dreamer, enthusiast, the English nobleman devoted 
his talents, his time, and his fortune to the restora- 
tion of the great pile. The Beaux-Arts and French 
connoisseurs will tell you he had better have left 
the ruins as they were, since in several of the at- 
tempted restorations architectural crimes were com- 
mitted. Mistaken as were some of these laudable 
efforts, at least for several years the joys that are 
the recompense of the restorer were the reward of 
the intrepid and generous-minded marquis. 

St.-Wandrille seems to carry, along with its charm, 
the mystery of fatality. With its owners, all, for a 
time, appears to go well. Then the Sisters Three, 
having decided on the ultimate fate of a victim, 
proceed to take their toll of human happiness. 

When the Marquis of Stackpool lost his wife he 
made of her room, of the chateau and abbaye, indeed, 
her living sepulcher. The apartments she had graced 

231 



lip TIIK Si:iNI<: TO TUK liATTLKFIKM>S 

willi lior j;ciillc prosciuv wore loft as she had hvod 
in them. In the ch)isters, under tlie f^reul trees, in 
I lie i)iirk where for years ])hins liad been ea;jferly 
discussed toij^elher, eohinms and walls Ihe hnshand 
and wife luid seen rise into slreii<;lh and heaiily, 
through their joint laslt' and nnflag'ging' zeal, eaeh 
slep echoing- along the vaulled cloisters, every 
lonely walk benealh the arching Irees, each and every 
slone that had been their joint labor of love — such 
memories were the hannling gliosis Ihal finally 
<lrove llu' manjuis lo make I he suprcMne sa('ri(ic(\ 
lie made his vows to the IJenedicline Order. 

The greatest of all liis restorations was in the gifl 
he made to his Order of the abbaye itself. Willi (he 
se])aralion of the clunvh and slate the abbaye was 
sold, and the present owner, who leased it to M. 
Maeterlinck, purchased the property. 



ciiAi»ri:R XV 



AN Ol'EN-AlIt liUNCHEON 



TT w.'is ^'oofl lo ho out iiKJiIn under hcjiven's great 
*■ vault. The (lay, if ;i,ny tiling, was grown more 
lovely. The sun was high and warm. There were 
no gliosts under tlie trees we had chosen for ihe 
leafy alsl(\s of our al fresco luncheon. It was a 
slieltered sanctuary, but there was gold in i)lenty 
rained down on us througli \ho thick oak branches. 
Once more we were in the sunny, grassy, gaily 
lighted world, where there were no more mysterious 
sliapes about tlian ants, uninvited guests to oin* ban- 
quets, and curious bees, wondering if hot coffee from 
Ihe ihermos, or cold chicken and salad, would be a 
satisfactory substitute for hidden sweets in scented 
flowers. 

The Ilaut Sauterne had just been uncorked when 
claidvlng steps on the road —steps that (;ame down 
with a mililary rhylhm- made us lift our eyes. The 
men swinging along the highroad brought us back 
to our own time and to the history of our own (hiy 
with a start. Four youths in the hideous cutaway 
caps which give to every German soldier the look 
of an escai^cd convict, and llieir green coats with the 



UP THE SEINE TO llIE BATTLEFIELDS 

huge "P" painted on the dingy fubrie, h^ft lis in 
no doubt as to the nalionaHty of the group. These 
German prisoners were followed, at a leisurely pace, 
by a tall, well-knit, })right-eyed French sergeant, 
si)ick and span in his new horizon-blues. 

"Bon jour, Mesdames," he cried, as he gave us his 
gallant salute, "et bon appetit." 

The bright eyes were fixed with uninislakable envy 
on our lifted glasses. 

Under such a glance, to extend the hospitality of 
the arching trees and to proffer a briniining glass 
were surely but Ihe most elementary courtesies. 

It was an illuminating example of the force that 
lies in victory to witness how easily our handsome 
young sergeant managed to partake of an exceedingly 
hearty luncheon and yet keej) an eye on his men. 
With a slight gesture, to us unintelligible, the 
Frenchman had signified to the i)risoiiers that they 
were to sit down. They plumi)ed down on a mouiul 
of grass with machine-like celerity. They huddled 
close together. Every one of the eight eyes watched 
us through staring eyes — eyes, however fixed the 
stare, that never once would meet ours. 

The young sergeant stood straight and tall for a 
Frencliman; with his gun slung across his back, 
glass in hand, he was not only entirely at his ease, 
but he was oi)enly enjoying this unlooked-for break 
in the long day's march. He and his Bodies, he 
ex]>lained, had come from the country about Yvetot. 
The i)risoners had been working on the farms, and 
were going to others nearer Havre. It was dull 

234 



AN OPEN-AIR LUNCHEON 

work, this "rounding up" of Germans, Oh-li, they 
were docile enough; tjiey gave no trouble — but if 
one was alone, as lie was, "it was as well to keep a 
sharp lookout." He always walked behind them — 
''cum me fa on est sur.^' 

As he talked, and first sipped his wine, and then 
finished the glass, at a single draught, the French- 
man's childlike delight in an audience became more 
and more apparent. To have the stage to oneself, 
to be able to give valuable information, and to be 
addressing deux dames amcrlcaines, who, doubtless, 
needed a great many things explained to them, was a 
situation not offered un beau gars every day in the 
week. To be di-amatic is every Frenchman's second 
nature. A recital of an adventure he had had in 
the earlier years of the war, of a really tragic nature, 
was given, after a few courteous phrases, with the 
expressive, illustrative gestui-e, with the fire of 
gleaming ej'es, and the rising inflections that impart 
to even a simple narrative dramatic intensity. 

He had been telling us he also had but lately 
come from Ribecourt. We had asked from what 
part of France he came, and he had answered, "from 
Senlis." We said we had but just returned from 
that i)art of the devastated regions. 

"Then, Mesdames, if you saw all these villages 
between Senlis, Compiegne, Roye, and Montdidier, 
you saw some terrible sights. But what one sees 
now, horrible as it is, is nothing to what went on 
when the Germans were in possession. 

"Tenez! here is what happened just about some 

235 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

of the villages you passed. I was there after the 
Germans had gone. 

*'Not for twenty miles about was a single village 
spared — only one. All were burned, pillaged first, 
sacked, then — ppsst! flammenwerfer ! All in flames 
— all of them, save that one!" 

The sergeant was waiting for our query. His 
instinct told him it would come. We played ui> to 
his expectancy. 

"But — why — why was one si)ared and all the 
others — " 

"Ah! because, Madame, the Boches knew which 
one to spare. They had their reasons. They 
wanted information. They must have it. So they 
j)icked out a village where they saw the women 
were sillier, more foolish, vainer than elsewhere. 
They first took away all the men — those too old to 
be soldiers. Then they played their little game. 
They began to have orgies — oh, orgies that lasted 
days and nights. And then the women, crazy from 
fright and drink, told them all they wanted to hear. 
Tliey even sold their men." 

We chorused an indignant protest. "Surely no 
Frenchwoman would do that!" 

"I don't say no. Only — Madame has never seen 

a German drunk. Then she cannot know what it is 

to be in the power of a beast unchained — when he 

is the master in a country. These brutes threatened 

to crii)ple their children, before their eyes, if the 

women didn't obey them — in everything. And 

Madame knows what they meant by tliat." The 

230 



AN OPEN-AIR lAINCITEON 

soldier stopped. He Iiad lost all his swagger. His 
easy assurance deserted him. He changed the topic 
almost immediately to one less gruesome. With 
his quick insight he perceived that our sun of con- 
tent, our gay little hour, was darkened. We could 
eat, we could laugh no more. Quick to seize the 
atmospheric change, our guest continued to speak of 
trivial things. He even, in an excess of amiable 
comradeship, helped us to repack our luncheon- 
basket. He saw he had unwittingly evoked emo- 
tions he could only dimly divine, but he knew that 
in attempting, innocently, to add a certain caviar to 
our feast he had, in some mistaken way, mixed, 
instead, a corrosive element. 

The Germans, who had never ceased to watch — 
slyly, warily — every gesture, each motion of each 
one of us, obviously concluded their watchful waiting 
had come to an end. Seeing the chauffeur leap into 
his seat, after lifting the luncheon-basket to the 
baggage rail, one after another the prisoners rose up, 
stretching arms and legs. 

"Asseyez-vous — sit down! How dare you rise 
before I gave the order!" Our sergeant was trans- 
formed. His order had been given in a voice of 
rolling thunder; every syllable had been punctuated 
with oaths in which "dog" and "god" and uncom- 
plimentary remarks about the maternal givers of life 
to the men were only more loudly shouted than was 
the command itself. 

One thing I noticed— the Frenchman never 
touched his gun. It swung still along his broad 



237 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

back. As he made us bis jiarting salute the weapon 
was only then grasped, hghtly, in his right hand. 
With a spring, the htlie figure dashed across a grassy 
mound; the sergeant gave a muttered ''Dchout — 
marcher and the Germans struck their mihtary 
stride and marched down the dusty road. 



CHAPTER XVI 

LE TRAIT — A GREAT ENTERPRISE 

rpUE (luickeiiiiig of our excited talk, the arguments 
^ tossed to and i'ro, the rapid glancing at stupen- 
dous (juestions it will take centuries to answer — I his 
effervescence of two minds — of two who liad livt'd 
in France through all the horrors of the war, from 
its very beginning — had made us unconscious of <dl 
else. That we were leaving St.-Wandrille; tliat we 
were traversing the same poetic road that we had 
taken in the earlier morning; that now we were being 
whirled into another part of this varied, this amaz- 
ingly picturesque Pays de Caux — to this quick change 
of scene we had been as indifferent as though we 
had joassed along the countryside in a trance. 

We came to fully restored consciousness with a 
start. How best to cure a world in the throes of 
anarchy, suffering from the disease of mortal ex- 
haustion and apathy, when it was not writhing in 
the agonies of convulsive unrest and discontent, 
were questions left in the air, so to speak. We were 
actually confronting one solution of our agitated 
planet's distemper. 

Oiu- cur's speed had brought us, in an incredibly 
short half-hour, to Le Trait. 

239 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

It was ill Le Trait we returned from the vain and 
vague regions of argument to a new world, to one 
in the very making. We were confronting one of 
the most interesting, most intelligently planned 
schemes for the amelioration of labor. We were in 
the midst of what appeared to be a model village. 

On either side of the road leading to Jumieges — 
the famous abbaye — on this highroad there were 
houses and shops, long buildings that had the appear- 
ance of future factories, with paths and lanes wliose 
unsmoothed roughnesses announced their recent lay- 
ing out. Workmen were hammering deafening blows ; 
whistles were sounding; telegraph poles, telephone 
wires were being placed; and serious-faced men were 
walking about, now stopi)ing to considt on some de- 
batable topic, now entering the near houses, or 
emerging again to give fresh orders to engineers or 
arcliitects. 

It was in the houses, in their new, original plan- 
ning — in the building of the houses, I found my chief 
interest centered. The bright red tiles of the roofs 
were advanced on either side of each house to form 
long extensions. The houses themselves were, in 
character, a cross between a bungalow and a modest 
French farm. Their aspect was more than pleas- 
ing; it was attractive. That the working-people 
already installed in those model dwellings consid- 
ered their homes worthy of the best, in point of 
decorative adjuncts, was proved in the windows' 
lace curtains being daintily tied with colored ribbons. 

About several of the houses gardens of flowers 

240 



LE TRAIT— A GREAT ENTERPRISE 

and vegetables were already not only planted, but 
the geraniums, phlox, marguerites, and dahlias were 
in full bloom, and salads, peas, beans, and turnips 
were ripe. 

Long since we had left the car, for I had special 
and peculiar reasons for my own interest in this 
capitalistic experiment. I had listened to the story 
of its inception and development and under cir- 
cumstances and in a situation not easily forgotten. 

In the month of early April, 1918, the nights in 
Paris were nights when one spent more hours in a 
cellar than in one's bed. The enemy aviators were 
unceasingly busy. Their accuracy of aim gave one 
the hardened cuirass, in time, of a somewhat fatal- 
istic indifference. Tlie cellar of a certain apartment- 
house where I was hospitably given a chance for 
such semi-security — this cellar having a graveyai-d 
climate of mingled mildew and penetrating damp- 
ness — my hostess and I descended each night, at 
any horn* the siren warned us the Boches were about 
to deluge Paris with bombs — we descended to the 
apartment of two kind friends, au fremier. The 
highly intelligent and remarkably sagacious head 
of the house had discovered a certain corridor in 
his apartment which promised to be as "secure a 
place as any other." We were most generously 
offered to share the security of the walled-in corri- 
dor; for it was the double walls of the latter which 
promised a certain safety if "the house itself was 
struck and pierced from roof to cellar by an in- 
cendiary torpedo." As there were two exits from 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIET.DS 

this iiaiTow, inclosed gallery — for siicli it was — 
there were two chances of escape did any projectile 
chance to find its destructive path along our chosen 
retreat. 

Long hours were spent in that corridor — some- 
times the larger part of a night. The hours, how- 
ever, never seemed long, for galhered together there 
were the rare and delightful elements which, as 
social elements, the world mourns as having disap- 
peared with the eighteenth century. 

There was an English beauty, who invariably 
issued from her room in an attire peculiarly suited 
to her extraordinarily piquant style; she would 
catch up her warm otter fur coat, long and full, 
wrap it about her, incase her feet, white as the 
Pentelican marble feet of an antique statue, in old- 
gold slippers, and, as a finish to the simplicity of her 
costume, her fluffy brown-robed Pomeranian dog was 
tucked under one arm. With the tossed-together 
luxuriance of her blond tresses — the high light of the 
picture — she was a Whistlerian symphony in browns 
and pale corn-color. 

There was also Monsieur — her husband, in a rich, 
sober-toned, silk dressing-gown, looking as wide- 
awake and as wise as Solon, ready for discussion on 
any subject, any one of which his brilliant intellect 
would illuminate with new, original lights, flashed in 
few but eloquent phrases. There was my hostess, 
in her laces and dainty tea-gown, responsive and as 
mentally alert aL three in the morning as she would 
be at three in the later afternoon. With beauty and 

242 



LE TRAIT— A GREAT ENTERPRISE 

talent, and with courage as Spartan as it was uncon- 
scious, who can wonder the hours flew? "£e scul 
mlon oil Von cause c'est Ic salon sous terrc," said sonic 
witty Frenchman. It is certain there was a renewal, 
a development of the graces and the arts of conver- 
sation, under the flashing fire of the German bombs, 
tliat rivaled the best of talk embalmed for us in the 
pages of any one of the eighteenth-century French or 
English memoirs. 

It was while the ominous crash of near descending 
bombs were startling the ear that I first heard of the 
Worms project. 

Monsieur X was one of the partners of this 

great sliippiiig firm, at Havre. Their own losses had 
been great. Their patriotism and business fore- 
sight and enterprise were but quickened by the 
disaster that was befalling French ships. The 
great project born of these losses and of the vision 
of France's maritime needs after the war arc best 
told in Monsieur X 's own words: 

"The conception of these shipbuilding yaras came 
to Messrs. Worms & Co. in 1917 — that is, at the 
worst i)eriod of the war. Their intention was not to 
build the yards for 'war purposes,' but to enable 
France to increase, after the war, their building 
capacity, which was all the more necessary as the 
world's commercial fleet was then rapidly decreasing. 
In those days America had not yet started to build 
on a large scale. 

"As those yards were meant to be a 'peace' 

establishment, Messrs. Worms & Co. decided that 

M3 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

they should be laid down, not next to a large to\Mi, 
with all its dangers and temptations, but in llio 
middle of a healthful country, far away from any 
town; and they have accordingly chosen the best 
site they could find, along the deepest part of the 
Seine, in beautiful scenery, at Le Trait, which is 
situated some eighteen miles from Rouen and some 
forty miles from Havre. The small towns of 
Caudebec, on the one side, and Duclair, on the other, 
are four and a half miles away. The yards are on 
the edge of the forest of Le Trait. 

"There was, however, a drawback to such a 
situation — that is, the workmen not being able to 
find lodgings in town, a whole garden city had to be 
built for them next to the yards. 

"So, in addition to the shipbuilding yards them- 
selves, which provide for eight berths, in which 
steamers of any size up to eighteen thousand tons 
can be built; in addition, also, to all the workshops 
necessary to feed those eight berths — there are, 
among others, two large halls of six hundred feet 
each and one hundred and twenty feet wide — in addi- 
tion to the most modern machinery equipment which 
is being fitted in those yards, Messrs. Worms & Co. 
are erecting a garden city for the thirty-five hundred 
workmen who will be employed — which means that, 
when completed, in the course of a very few months, 
this garden city will have a population of twelve 
thousand souls. 

"Every house was to be fitted with running 
water, gas, and electricity; cvQi-y family was to 

Mi 



LE TRAIT— A GREAT ENTERPRISE 

have a little piece of garden around their house, to 
grow their flowers and vegetables. Every possible 
comfort will be assured the workmen; also enter- 
tainments, a cinema-hall, sporting grounds, etc., hav- 
ing been provided for. There were, of course, to be 
a church, a hospital, and schools for children. 

"Although the building of this enormous under- 
taking has been slow, owing to the difficulties 
experienced during the war, and even after, the yards 
are now practically completed. The building of the 
boats will be started in a few weeks' time, and the 
necessary houses have already been erected for 
several hundreds of workmen." 

In a later conversation Monsieur X answered 

a protest I had made in commenting on the dese- 
cration of the superb forests of the Seine. 

"You must resign yourself to see more and 
more of such desecrations, dear Madam. The 
cuttings you deplore, as impairing the natural 
beauties of the river, were concessions made, during 
the war, to our allies — to the English, to the Bel- 
gians. They as well as we had need of wood for 
barracks, for the trenches. The war has really 
seen this new mine of wealth opened to France; we 
did not before realize what a great watery highway 
was our Seine — nor what ports could be made along 
her shores. In ten, in fifteen years you will see the 
shores covered with just such industrial enterprises 
as ours. You cry out? Ah! You look upon the 
Seine from the point of view of the artist. You wish 
its architectural treasures to remain in their frames 

17 245 



lir Tin: SEINE TO TTIE BATTLEF11<:E1)S 

— ill iiiiioiig" Llio iialur;il boaiilies. AVc look al llic 
river from tlio ])oint of view of iililily." 

Are we to deplore iliis, the fiiLuie ol' llie ^real 
river? 

l^A'ery nioclel house we passed, as we k'f I the gar(kMi 
city, seemed to ^'ive lis i(s answer. 

Here, in lliis ideal si I nation, was ihe i)romise ol' an 
ideal life t\)r iJie workin^-nian, of his secure future 
and of that of his children. Le Trait was the 
enlightencHl, progressive realization of cai)italislie 
resjionsihilily. 

From (he poinl of view of ])nre i)atriotism, can a 
more elocpient proof be given of French courage, t)f 
French assurance of nllimale victory? "In the 
darkest days of the war" to have conceived such 
a great enter})rise and to have started the yards 
are in themselves the answer to every iloubting 
mind. France's ])owers of initiative, of recuperative 
strength, are indeed inexhaustible. 



CHAPTER XVII 

JUMlEGES 



npiIE leap backward from a twentieth-century 
-^ slilphiiilding yard and an ideal garden city to 
an eleventh-century abbaye might have been a 
soniewliat perilous mental effort. We were, how- 
ever, as one nn'ght say, in training. 

As the towering mass of the great Jumieges ruins 
rose up above the long convent walls, the point of 
view was quickly adjusLed. There was, perhaps, an 
even more inslanlancous resi)onse to their grandeur; 
these Jumieges ruins, in their long reign of twelve 
ccnluries, have more than contributed their part to 
I lie glories of France. 

On entering the beautiful park, the uprising mass 
of the western fi-ont of the abbaye confronts one. 
TJie ])()rtal, the I wo sn])erb towers, almost i)ersuade 
one tliat the abbaye itself will be found as intact as 
are the towers. 

The impression produced at the very first ap- 
proach to these Jumieg(^s ruins is one of an immense 
surprise. How is it all the world does not talk of 
them, visit them, extol them as other lesser great 
architectural remains are lauded? 

247 



UP TllK SEINK TO J HE BATTLEFIIILDS 

The scenic surroundings in themselves woiikl KmkI 
poetic chiirni, iis well as a certain grandeur, to e^'ell 
less noble an archil eel iinil survival. The greal 
trees ol" ihe park, Ihc onKMliness, Ihe (juiel hcanly ol' 
the surrounding spaces, eonlribule lo give a filling 
frame to these eeelesiaslical buildings, thai ar<' 
among ihe mosl remarkable in h'rance. 

The building ol' Ihe cliurches, gardens, abbalial 
l)alaces, giuu*d-roouis, and libraries ol' Junu'eges has 
followed Ihe rise of French po\V(M- and eeelesiaslical 
domiualion; wilh ihe ebb and How of France's own 
historic vicissitudes they have been sacked, pillaged, 
and destroyed, only to rise, phenix-like, from llicir 
ruins. 

The abl>ots who planned I lie supiM-b Norniau 
abbaye, whose towers and many of whose walls are 
still standing, nuisl have b(>licved they were building 
for an earthly eternity of time. The earlier abbaye 
erected by St.-riiilbert was built on the ruins of an 
ancienl Koman cast rum. 

Two ccnluries later the fame of the Ix^iuty and, 
above all other al trad ions, the riches of this original 
monastery l)ecanie the chosen sciMie of Norman 
horrors. TIaslings, the Dane, at Ihe head of an 
army of pirates and nmrderers, allac-kcd llu> Byzau- 
liue-Komauesque church, robbed it, i)ilIag(Hl Ihc mon- 
astery, and nuissacred all but I wo of ils holy men. 

There is a touching aiul a somewhat romant Ic slory 
relating to the reappe;u-auce of these two surviving 
brelhreu. They stole back, it appears, to llie ruins 
of their beloved church >'(>ars after. On a certain 

218 



JUMlf:GES 

moonlight night Wilham Long-Swords, having come 
on a hunting expedition to the famed forest of 
Jumieges, on visiting the ruins of the convent found 
these two desolate Benedictines weeping over their 
irreparable losses. This particular son of Rollo — 
the latter the great and the first Norman chieftain 
to own Normandy (Neustria) — had a kind heart as 
well as a lively memory. Rescued from a terrible 
fate, during a chase that might have proved fatal, 
in a neighboring forest, William vowed not only to 
rebuild Jumieges, but also to enter holy orders. 
One of these pious vows was fulfilled. The church 
of St. -Peter was rebuilt. After William's assassi- 
nation the monkish habit he proposed to don was 
found among his effects. 

With this rebuilding of its central church we 
follow the fortunes of the abbaye step by step, by 
literally reading its story through the architectural 
fragments that still confront us. 

The original church was Gallo-Roman, remains 
having been found of this the earliest of all the 
abbayes. The church built after the first Danish 
invasion was Byzantine-Romanesque. 

Against the wall of the church of St.-Pierre — the 
Gothic church adjoining the abbaye — there are some 
exceedingly interesting panels still remaining, wherein 
were inlaid, originally, Byzantine mosaics. There 
are also arches curiously wrought, to the left of this 
elevation — arches recalling in their grouping and 
tracery the capitals of certain Auvergnois cloisters. 

It would be well for the visitor to begin his tour 

249 



in* riiK SKiNK TO 'iiiK HA T I i,i:rii:i,i)S 

of inspcvlioii iil lliis i)«>iiil, ;is I lion llir j^nulinil nd- 
vniKNMiHMiI in \hc l{onKnu>s((iu\ llw Normnii, Mh- 
(Jollilc, .•111(1 \W V\:m\\H^\:\.u\ slyKvs, in nil ol' wliicli 
Jiimic^'(\'^ is so ri<vli, could In* Iracrd. 

The gr<>jil ;d)l);iy(' ilsi^il", l)(>j;im in lOK), was hnill 
in iliroo dislinci pnrls: llu> uarllu \, llic lowers and 
ilic niassivo lowers were liisl (Mccled; Mie coiiiU'cl- 
in^' nax'e was huill lalcr on. 

Tile snixM-1) eenhal arelies supporting' llie lanlern 
— one ol' whieli is si ill inlacl lliese arelies ar(> I lie 
ever-eonlinnini;' wonder ol' areliileels. The audaeil y 
of I lie eoneeplion and I lie lrinnii)ha.nl sneeess of I he 
p(Milons venlnre of earryini;' I lie Norman areli lo 
sneli a. lieii;iil class I Ins acliiex-enienl amonj^ (lie 
raresi aicInU'cl ui;d jewels in 1^^'aiiee. 

'I'lie elal)oia.le (Jolliie apsidal cliajx'ls were addc'd 
under I'ai^lisli doniinalion. 'I'lie delicacy of I he 
cnrvini;", (he reliiuMiienI in I he si one lraeeri(\s, are 
«'lo(|neiil of I he lasU> <lis|)layed in perfect iiii;' i>\<M'y 
delail in these ornanunlal additions lo the main 
huildini;. 'I'lie siii.i;nlar nobility and nnnsnal dii;- 
iiily of the older Noinian ahhaye is i)erliaps niadi^ I he 
nior<- prt)noniUHMl seiMi llins in contrast with the 
lighter, more j)nrely decoratiM' (iollii<'. I'lie "mas- 
sive rudeness" which commonly eIiara<l(Mi/,es I he 
majority of Noinian ealhedrals or the more im- 
|)ortaiit Norman chnrehes is slrikini^ly absent, as a. 
4lisl ineti\(> fealnre. in this Jnmiei^ws abbayt\ There 
ari> such breadth, (>le\ at ion. aiwl simplieily, as wt^ll as 
such i;ra.ndenr, in the frai;iiients left, ns. we can- 
not conceive of the church as il was as otherwise 



.niMir:(ji;s 



llijiii lli(> iiiosi |K;ifc(:L of nil Noriiwiii <'(<lcsiji„sl icil 
nI iimI iii<'s. 

A ^rcid, nilii lins I lie one .sii|iicin<" ;i.<lv;i,iihi,^<' ol" 
.•i.llo\viii;.C iiii;i.;':iii;i,li()ii l<> l;ikc ils lli<(lil. VVIm'Ii u 
Nornum clniicli Ii;in llic lender hliics of iiii Aii/^iisl 
.sky lor a rool", nii<l !i\ iii^^ Irccs :iii(l vivid /'.insscs lor 
Inu-crics aloii;^' .•irciu-s jitid coiiinm.s, vvlicrc cnn oiu' 
find l<\'r^Mis(Hi'.s " iii.issivc Noiiimn nMlciicss"? 

As one now w.'dks Ix-nculli llic rools of sky, !«'- 
iK'ulli a .side-wall here, .1, IVai^nicnl ol" a, nave IlK'n-, 
willi a, head .slarin/j; old nl (>n<' l>eiiea.lli a, eapilal, 
on \vlios<' nose, |k'|Ii;i|)s, a, swallow ali/;lils I'ra,/;;- 
incnlary as is I his l;il)yrinlli of anlicpie si rin-l ni'<'S, 
it yet preserves uu nslonishin^' air ol" .solidily. J I, 
.seems InipossiMe lo as.soeialc wilh I he inai<'slle pile 
I he idea, of <leea,y or ol' sa.dness. Ther*' is soin<'lliin^ 
ol I he same e\ Inl.iral in;-; al niospheic perva.din/!^ Ihes(» 
;^rea,l rnins such as one experiences in slaiidin^', on 
I he y\lhenia,n Aero|)(>lis. 

TIm- ^vr;i\ life lived here seems lo have connnnni- 
(•nl.ed .soinelhin^ ol* lis vihralory power lo llie vwy 
air. Thos*' <lyna,mie forces ol" passions and heliel's 
I ha I slir I he world no lon/^er appear lo ha,ve hu- 
mani/ed I he v<'ry slones. One mi;'lil well l»eliev(r 
one heard voices slill commanding', exhorl in/^', com- 
I'orlin;^-, preaching;, and praying', und others rais<'d 
in sohinn chaiil of praise in I lull siiperh male 
chorns lhii,l. rose np inidrr I he lowcrin/^ aiclies lor 
I U(l\e lon;^" <-cnl nries. 

There is indeed scarcely u slone lel'l slandin/', Ihal 
does no! hiislle wilh sn^/^'csiions. 



HI' rilK SEINE TO Till': HAITKEITKLDS 

Tn llio onsiiiiii;' conlurics Jimiir<;(\s coulniiUMl 
williiii ils vasl walls many o[ llu' liolcls ol" liumaii 
iiuliistry which in our hilor centuries luive been 
sj)eeialize(l. 

Il was ;il once a great seliot)!, renowned IV)r ils 
advanced scholarslu'i) and ils sci(Mi[i(ie allainnieiils 
and ieachings; il was also a food conuuillec, a 
niasler ol' I'oreshy, and an a<lrnInIslra.lor ol' lowiis, 
ol" villages, and ol' wide si retches ol' connlry. 

Th(\se ahhols an<l Iheir monks "administered, 
governed, i)reached, consoled, I'orlified iJie i)eo|)le, 
created cuslomers, laughl children, hnl Ihe ]H)or, 
(Mlncated clerics, sustained I lie liturgy, spread abroad 
hope and peaces" Their college wdu a. great name 
indeed for learning; cliarili<\s on an immense scale 
passed through I he hands of Ihese IJem^dicline dis- 
trihuters. 

It is only in at templing to gras]) the magnitude of 
such labors and the lofty ideals animating these 
Jumieges monks thai Ihe im])ortance au<l radiating 
influence of their twelve centuries of contimious 
elVort can be divined. Once the grandeur of th(> life 
lived under these noble arches is seized and 7>iclured, 
the splendors of the ruins themselves are illumined 
by that idealizing vision which helps one to rebuild 
I hem. 

Tlie scenario of the great historic situations asso- 
ciated with Jinnieges was, one nmst concede, mag- 
nificently set. 

The greatest of all tlie scenes, since il was one 

that changed the lace of the world, was played out 

25« 



JUMIEGES 

hetwoon Edward tlio Confessor and William, Did-cc of 
Normandy; aiul later the same selling' was fiirmslied 
for the vows Harold (lie English king was Lo mouth 
Ix'fore Ihe si em Norman. 

That "halo of tenderness" which Green, the his- 
torian, states was to surround the very name of 
Edward the Confessor was possibly a halo borrowed 
from the gentle yet learned Jumieges monks. The 
l^lnglish king, as boy and man, had lived as a student 
and exile at Jumieges. "^I'here it was he made liis 
promise to his kinsman, William, Dukeof Normandy; 
the crown of I^^ngland was to ])ass aftei- his death to 
the strong hands of his Norman cousin. 

Dim as are the lights that play ui)on that mo- 
mentous scene, Norman historians have preserved 
for us, through their vivi<l character-drawing, tlu; 
outlines and featuies of the two rulers. We can 
si III picture the strongly built, })owerfid frame of 
William, his Danish heritage of strength and un- 
tamable vigor blazing through his blue eyes and 
resolute features. lie who from his earliest boyhood 
had i)roved himself warrior, a great leader and 
winner of men, a true king and ruler, nuist have felt 
the winy rapture flood his whole being at Jiearing 
the vow lisped by his English cousin. He, the 
"Bastard" King of England! On royal robes no 
stains of birth are seen. 

0])posite this controlled, indomitable, superb 
figure stood "the gentle king"— he who, on taking 
up the English scepter on his return from exile, 
seemed "a mere shadow of the past." "There was 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

soiTicthin^ shadow-like in his thin form, liis delicate 
comi)lexion, his trans])arent womanly hands."* 

Like shadows now are tlie am'eoled confessor, the 
nn*j>hty Norman ruler, IIart)l(l, who was to swear, 
later on, Etlward's oath once again — this time on 
Jumieges's sacred relics, as are all the attendant 
host of monks, of abbots, of Norman knights, and 
of Englisli earls, who were doubtless ]>res(Mit when 
Edward and Harold gave their kingly word — the 
promise that was to shape the fate of unborn millions 
— like shadows, in<leed, those phantom forms melt 
into the mists of the past. How far away, how 
remote from our own lives, seem such men and theii- 
words — we who have known a living William II of 
Germany antl have seen monarchies and kingdoms 
ci'umble like a handful of dust ! 

Yet the shadow cast by that scene, under these 
Jumieges arches, still stretches from British London 
to ISIelbourne, from Delhi to Montreal, as its per- 
sistent influence has crossed with the English armies 
the lilied fields of France, making its blood-soaked 
soil to blossom forth in renewed energy, to help win 
the great Victoiy — to remake the woild. 

The great bells of the al)baye that had played their 
chiming music in that far-away eleventh centiuy 
tolled with as clamorous a ring when Charles VTI 
came to Jumieges. This king, who was le genlil rot 
to (he two women who chiefly loved him — to Joan 
of Arc who loved him reverently as her king, and 
the other one who loved him as women love royal 

^ Grocn, Ulstory of Ihc English Peoph: 



JUMlfiGES 

lovers, or, rather, as they did in the days when kings 
were sucli kings that to yield to their i)assion was 
considered raliier an honorable weakness than a 
disgraceful action — tliis king of France came in the 
year 1449 to the abbaye partly to see to the enlarge- 
ment of certain apartments in the superb palace 
reserved for royal visitors. 

Such an errand was a serious matter. Lover of 
ease and luxury, dreaming of peace with wars thun- 
d(M-iiig at half the towns in France not yet his, the 
Iving had come to Jumicges to plan new splendors, 
it is true, and also to make love to Agnes Sorel. 

Agnes was close at hand. There was to be no 
element lacking in the king's entertainment. 

One wonders if the king's memories were all 
sweet as he rode along the Seine shores; if the river 
in its steely, wintry shining held up to him no 
mirror reflecting the burden, light as had been 
kingly gratitude, that the waters running to the sea 
had carried, on a certain spring May day in the year 
1431. Did the chasing waves tell him no story of 
how a French king had deserted the girl — the saint 
who had saved him — whose courage and pious be- 
lief in him as God's anointed had saved France? — 
had crowned him, Charles, king at Rheims, as she 
had promised.'^ "Gentle Dauphin . . . the Heav- 
enly King sends me to tell you you shall be anointed 
and crowned at Ilheims!" she had cried, as slie laielt 
at his feet. ^ 

Here now was Charles, crowned and anointed, 

^ Lea, Uistoire de I' Inquisition, translated by Saloman Reinach. 

255 



Ill* THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

ruling- lo nuvl his niislross. IIow could he ho 
oxi)cc'UhI lo feci the ju-ick ol' (.'oiisciciico or lo allow 
dismal iiiomoiios ol' a halolul ])asl to riso up lo spoil 
his proscul glow ol' hai>py couloiil? Kighloou ,vi>ars 
ago a. i)oasaul girl called Joau ol" Arc was hurucil a I 
llio slako, aud her ashes were (luug iulo the Seiue, 
A kiug eouUl afl'ord to lorget. There were many 
who allirnied she was a wileh. The Freueh hishops, 
[\\r JMiglish judges, aud I he iuipiisilors helieveil luvr 
to be oue. Aud il was ihe Euglish and llu> lu(|uisi- 
tiou Ihal had I'oudeuuied lu-r. Tlie kiug wlu)Ui 
Joan ha.d crowned could Iherel'ore shrug his shoulders 
aud ride on, snn'ling as he Ihoughl of Ihe face of all 
laces for him, looking I'orlh even now from a manor 
window. The («od Ihal walches over kings works in 
wondrous ways. Joan, Ihe girl peasaul, was («od\s 
luimble messenger lo rouse b^ance and l*'rcnchmcu. 
All was now well wilh Ihe world -or would he, once 
l^Vance was entirely freed from English prelenders. 
The reasoning of kings is not thai of ordinary men. 

When Charles reached Jumiegc'^' i>ol a mile away, 
in ihe charming INlanoir du Mesuil, ck>st> to llie Seiue 
shores, la belle dcs belles WiiS awaiting her royal lo\er. 
From her manor, it is recorded, Ihrough ils w iudows, 
or, as she wandered out upon ihe roads leading lo 
Jumicges or along the ri\'er shores, Agnes would 
lot)k and look "lo see if she could see somelhiug 
coming." IIow like a woman! It is always the 
woman who walches and wails. 

Al Ihis period of her life I his lovely woman, for 

whom even Ihe harshesl historian has only soft 

wo 



words, was no longer In (he firsl hlooiii of licr nullant 
voiilli; slic was iic.iiiii^- loily. At twcnty-lvvo, siicli 
Wiis llic r.M.mc ol" licr Ix'iuily, Ics plus <jr(ni<fs scif/ticiirs 
hi coiirlisitidil, llioii^li sIk' jjosscsscd noilluT rorLiiiie 
nor ;i groat luuiic. 

WIu'U llic greatest of all Frcncli graiulcM's ])ai*<] licr 
Ins court Agiu'^s won even tlie (|neen's resjx'ct hy I lie 
(ii^iiily of lier answer: "Simple denioisellc lliongli I 
am, (he king's conquest will n(»t I>e ;in e;isy one, for 
him. I venerale and lionor liim, hnl 1 <lo not con- 
sider I liMA'e anytliing to share, in such lionors, with 
Ihe (|ueen." 

Agnes reconsidered that decision, as all the world 
knows. Such was ]ier cliarm, snch her wise counsels, 
such the mingle«l gaiely ;i,nd wisdom of her mind 
and cliaracter, I hat she kept a sensuons-niilnred king 
true to her till she di<'d. 

Never, it aj)pears, was Agnes as lender, as heau- 
liful, as during I his her last great moment of ]iapj)i- 
ness. ll almost seemed, we are loM, ;is if she; 
divined her coming end. "Her wil, her ch;irming 
grace, all those delicate ways she liad learned at Ihe 
court of Isabean of liorraine. Duchess of Anjou," 
were the thousand magics hy which she charnie<l, 
not oidy the king, hut ahhol, canons, ;i,nd <l<'aiis 
whose A'ows of continence <lid nol forbid lheirliom;ige 
lo a king who had broken his nor I heir openly ex- 
l)resse<l delight and admiration for an nmepentant 
Mag(hdene. 

Certain Frencli lu'storlans would have us believe 

that Agncs's memory jx'rvades every part of the 

i67 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

great abbaye. The fact of the king's last meeting 
with his love in the superb setting of Jumieges, this 
tender episode in the history of the abbaye, has 
cast, it is true, that spell of romance about the 
famous monastery which illicit amours, framed in 
sumptuous surroundings, are certain to evoke. 
That this meeting of the lovers was known and prac- 
tically countenanced by a whole convent of monks 
adds a piquant note to the event. 

Jumieges in this fifteenth century was at the very 
zenith of its splendor. Having escaped the pillaging 
and devastating outrages only too common during 
the English occupation of all this part of Normandy, 
the abbaye was, one may say, actually gorged with 
its riches. The king and his suite, as Francis I 
found in the following centmy, as Marguerite 
d'Anjou, wife of Henry VI, and as so many other 
royal and crowned heads were to find — King Charles, 
as he well knew, would be royally lodged; there were 
apartments, galleries, guard-rooms ready and waiting 
for princely guests and their attendant courtiers and 
guards. 

On so vast a scale was this splendor of the great 
abbayes of the period planned and administered that 
the monastic life of the brethren, their devotions, 
their vast business relations, their charities, their 
administrative labors, could be carried on, uninter- 
rupted and in complete seclusion, while literally 
hundreds of guests were housed, in sumptuous lux- 
ury, and fed at banquets such as Maecenas himself 
might have ordered. 

258 



JUMIEGES 

Norman pomp, Norman pride, Norman power 
were shrined in ilie now completed splendor of the 
abbaye. 

From the upper galleries of the ambulatories 
Agnes, as she and her ladies came to the celebration 
of high mass, would have leaned downward to watch 
the magnificent ceremonial, she would have seen 
the abbot wearing the jeweled miter, carrying the 
episcopal staff, and on his finger there shone the 
violet glow of the bishop's ring belonging, according 
to canonical rule, strictly to bishops; but Gregory 
XII had bestowed these rights on a former abbot of 
Jumieges in recognition of his great services. 

Agnes would have slipped her white fingers along 
her rosary, as she knelt, but her eyes would have 
caught the gleam of the morning sun illuminating 
the frescoed saints and angels and its softened wintry 
glow on painted walls and carved capitals. 

Through the stained-glass windows, framed in the 
Gothic apsidal chapels, the prismatic hues of a 
thousand polychrome colors would make the choir 
end of the great church a blaze of glory. The sono- 
rous Gregorian chant would rise, would soar in rhyth- 
mic volume like undulating waves made musical. 
In the processional, the stepping of hundreds of the 
black-habited Benedictine monks would be the rude 
accompaniment to the choir -boys' fluted tenors. 
The statues of the cowled monks and saints, limbed 
by sculptors, rigid in their marble stillness, niched 
in their shrines, would seem almost as animate as 
the living army passing before them as were these 

259 



Ur THE SEINE TO TlIK BATTLEFIELDS 

men who Mere vowed to celibaey, vowed to iniqiies- 
tioiiing' obedieiiee, vowed to renounce peri)elually 
all 111 at Charles and Agnes were blazoning before 
their eyes. 

II 

In the admirably arranged little nuiseum, just 
oi)i)osite the al)baye, you will be shown a certain 
slab of black niarl)le; this was the covering stone to 
the sarcoi)hagns in which was laid forever at rest that 
heart that had beaten to every note of love's rapt- 
ure. Agnes Sorel had wished son cwiir cl scs cn- 
trailles to be entombed at Jumieges. 

The idyl at Jumieges did not have a prolonged life. 
The king arrived in November in MM). Toward the 
end of December he remembered he had a kingdom 
not as yet all his own; he departed on a warlike 
expedition. Joan of Arc, having shown him how 
to impress troops by api)earlng in i)erson l)efore ti 
besieged town, the king reapi)eared in January-, 
having forced ILirflenr, held by the English, to 
ca])ilulate. We can almost hear the bells ringing to 
celel)rate the triiMnj)hant feal. Calais, it is true, 
was still an English town; Ilonfleur was enduring a 
siege of thirty -nine da;^'s; Paris was French once 
more; but in this war of mutual extermination it 
was rather famine, poverty, ruin who were kings 
than luxiu'y -loving, love-making Charles; a hundred 
thousand men, women, and chiklren had perished in 
Paris alone from misery and want. 

Charles was forced to confront one monarch at 



JUMlfeGES 

Jiim leges more powerful than Henri V, or tlie Duke 
of Bedford, or Talbot. King Death rode out of his 
niystie realms nnd marked Agnes as one to enter 
into anotlier life, through other portals than palace 
doors. 

In her death Agnes was as mourned as she had 
l)een courted in life. All Juinieg(!S, all the court 
surrounding the deserted queen, the queen herself 
mourned "the one who was beautiful above all other 
beauties." Slu^ died in tlie odor of sanctity, on the 
9th of February, 14tO. Kile cut iiioult belle con- 
trition et repentance de ,ses pcchcfi . . . et invoqnail 
Dieii et la Sainte-Marie a son ayde. Such death-bed 
repentance* ai)pears to me to l)e ])assably easy, after 
one has lived for over eighteen years the ha})})iest of 
earthly lives, unflecked, apparently, by a j)assing 
sluulow of conirilion. 

In the same room as tlu; slab of Agnes's sarcopha- 
gus, in the museum, you will be shown another 
curious, and far more primitive, tomb — the tomb of 
"/y^'.v Enervd.s'." The legend — for ihe story bears 
all the marks of legendary development — is the sup- 
posed history of the two sons of Clovis II and his 
Queen Bathilde — the very queen who founded the 
abbaye. 

These two sons, having revolted against their 
queen-mother during the king's absence, suffered 
horrible and quite incn'dibie pinilslmient at tlieir 
fatJier's hands. Tlie two rebellious sons were ham- 
strung, and tlieir bodies were flung to the mercy of 
the Seine. Discovered and rescued by the Jumieges 
18 201 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

monks, they died in the monastery, and were piously 
buried in the original church. 



Ill 

Jumieges for a long century was to enjoy its era 
of power. With the wars of religion, however, the 
Calvinists were to precede the Terrorists, in their 
fury of demolition, sacrilege, and pillaging. The 
monks fled, perhaps through that very subterranean 
jiassage which the Jumieges guide will even now 
show you. Such passages were built originally for 
quick and safe exit not only for the brethren in- 
habitating monasteries, but for the surrounding 
population who sought safety from Norman pirates, 
later from English armies, in the ensuing centuries 
from Protestant pillagers, and later still from the 
Terrorists. 

Jumieges from its earliest beginning had been a 
refuge, in critical times, for the neighboring villagers. 
Kings did not disdain to gain towns and cities thus 
through its secret underground passages, to towns 
and cities where they might court safety. 

These long, well-built, all-but-airless galleries re- 
semble the better-built trenches of our late war. 
Tlu'ough these dark, underground passageways 
every cloistered inhabitant of Jumieges could flee 
during the wars of religion as far as Rouen. With 
them the monks were careful, knowing the Cal- 
vinists' hatred of sacred relics and their love of gold, 
to carry with them the bones of saints, all the 

262 



JUMlfiGES 

magnificent gold altar service, and all of their treasure 
it was possible to transport. 

A single elderly monk and a convert were the only 
occupants of the vast monastery to answer the 
angry, cheated Protestants, whose faces must have 
reflected other passions than those preached by 
Calvin and Luther, when they made their raid on 
the monastery. 

In the later Renaissance period the great abbaye 
recovered its lost splendor. We read that the beau- 
tiful gardens, which you may still see, were laid out 
as doubtless we now behold them; for the present 
owner of Jumieges has continued her talented hus- 
band's works in restoring at least the lovely gardens 
to something of their former beauty. 

The fine library of ten thousand volumes was still 
on the shelves, in 1789, when Jumieges, under 
revolutionary rule, was suppressed as a monastery. 
The monks were succeeded by a regiment of cavalry. 
The sacred vessels, all the heaped-up treasures of 
gold and silver — that gold that had comforted how 
many an impoverished soul, that had ransomed its 
own duke, Richard I, King of England, that had 
enabled eighty-two abbots to dispense charity as 
plentifully as the golden wheat yielded up its wealth 
in the abbaye fields — relics, vessels, gold, all were 
taken over and transferred to the Public Treasury. 

During the Terror Jumieges suffered the last 

desecration. It was sold to a Rouen citizen in 1796. 

The magnificent structures eventually became a 

quarry, After all the lead, iron, wood, marbles, and 

e03 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

stained-glass windows were sold, the very stones be- 
came the i^roperty of all who cared to possess them 
and at the lowest of prices. 

In the early years of the Restoration, so lightly 
were such ruins as still remained of the desecrated 
abbaye esteemed, English lovers of noble architect- 
ure were enabled to purchase and to transport to 
England a whole Gothic chapel. 

All the world owes a debt to the present pro- 
prietress of Jumieges; the ruins themselves for over 
sixty years have been kept in a remarkable state of 
repair — if one can speak of ruins and repair in the 
same breath. Monsieur and Madame Cointet have 
done more than merely to present to the world, in 
reverent fidelity to beauty and grandeur, what 
remains of one of the most interesting collections of 
ecclesiastical and monastic buildings in France. 
They have repaired and preserved them. 

They have also given us a garden of princes. The 
liighly intelligent guide, an encyclopedia of knowl- 
edge — Monsieur Detienne — will lead you past the 
ruined chapels of the church into garden paths 
rimmed with roses, with dahlias, with stately mar- 
guerites, and with fragrant heliotrope. Great lawns 
stretch on and on, whereon uprise ornamental trees 
superb in growth and admirably placed. The stair- 
way leading to an upper terrace is one of the gems 
of the Louis XV style; the steps curve in such lines 
of grace as seem rather an ornament than in- 
dented for practical purposes. Les Cliarmies, where 
Benedictine monks have trailed their robes and 

SOI 



JUMifeGES 

steps, breviary in hand, at the hours of devotion; or 
where mighty plans have matured between abbot 
and a dean or canon; or where kings have stepped, 
tempering their royal strut to the gentle pace of 
their pious host — how each and every leaf in this 
green shelter seems to whisper the secrets breathed 
here, the counsels given, and the prayers lifted 
heavenward ! 

You will note the aisles were planned to form the 
figure of the cross. When the brethren paced these 
luminous paths, where the sun-rays sift through the 
leaves but do not dazzle, the trees were cut down 
almost to the level of the monkish head; for a 
Benedictine must ever find heaven's light descending 
directly upon his bared head. 

Our own war must leave its seal of destruction on 
the ruins. A certain chapel in the Gothic church 
crumbled to fragments, though having miraculously 
escaped profanation during the revolutionary period. 
The terrible explosion that took place at Harfleur, 
in the "Pyrotechnic Beige," shook the land as far as 
Jumieges. The chapel is now but a mass of debris, 
with one or two walls standing. 

Many of the more valuable ornaments and treas- 
ures of the abbaye, during the Terror, or later when 
Napoleon came to work order out of chaos, were 
transferred to Rouen. 

At St. - Ouen, in that most perfect of Gothic 
churches, you will be startled at hearing a singularly 
deep-toned, sonorous-tongued bell ring out for higli 
mass and for the great fetes of the church. Its 

265 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

glorious voice never rang out more joyous peals 
than on the great day of Peace. This, the largest of 
all the bells that swung in the lofty Jumieges abbaye 
towers, is now one of Rouen's prized possessions. 

When its rich notes float out upon the Normandy 
air it carries a message to every French man, woman, 
and child, and to every one else who may hear it: 
"France may suffer, may be brought low, may see 
much of its grandeur lie in ruins; but France raises 
high, again and again, its tricolor, as once it did its 
fleur-de-lis. France and its jieople love peace, as 
did its King Charles VII; but for France to remain 
France its people will fight, though, like unto this 
remaining bell of all the grandeur of Jumieges, there 
be but one left to cry, 'France shall not die!'" 



CHAPTER XVIII 



DUCLAIR 



"TATJCLAIR, where we were to pass the night, 
-*— ' impresses one as being in utmost haste to 
convince you it is up to date. A former posting 
station between Rouen and Havre, it has the pre- 
tentious importance, one accentuated by the war, 
of connecting America and Paris. 

The guide-books aid and abet this imposing as- 
sumption. To read all that Duclair offers, from a 
point of view of departure, turns one dizzy. That 
excellent "guide Johanne's" plans for leaving the 
little town would almost persuade one it is Duclair, 
and not Boston, that is the hub of the universe. 
The Havre boat stops at Duclair to convey you to 
Rouen; the bac plying between the two river shores 
enables you to reach Evreux, or Paris, or the races 
at Trouville, Deauville, or Caen, or even Cherbourg, 
in an incredibly short space of time. There are also 
conveyances of every kind to suit the most exacting 
tastes to convey you to Jumieges, or to Caudebec, 
or to Etretat, at your will. 

267 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

There were some undeniable proofs that ces Mes- 
sieurs Johanne were not overstaliiig the excellent 
case they made out for Duclair. The road that is 
as close to the Seine as it is safe for a road to run 
l^resented a scene of continuous animation diu'ing 
the dinner-hour. There were motor-cars passing 
and repassing. There were lorries, filletl with 
English soldiers; there were chars-a-hancs rat I ling 
along, with peasant women whose cheeks wore the 
ruddy bloom of high health; the hac crossed and 
recrossed at j)recisely the hours i)romised in the 
local newspapers and guide-books — and there was 
the lady from Paris — her dog, and her maid, to prove 
how closely in touch was Duclair with the great 
world. 

It was destined we were to become acquainted 
with some of the more intimate details of this per- 
son's life-history. The revealing cause was the 
closeness of the little tables alined on the inn's 
balcony. Here also the builder of the one good hotel 
in town had had the wisdom to seize the business 
advantages of ])roviding an alfresco view of the Seine. 

We had but just given our order for our meal when 
a motor-car of spectacular aspect — white as snow, 
lined with strawberry-])ink velveteen — came to a 
stop below the balcony. One of the occui>ants, 
enveloped in a white coat, with white shoes and 
turban to outrival her car's purity, descended, 
seized a tiny toy terrier, tucked it imder her arm, 
and disai)])eared from view into the liotel interior. 

Half an hour later she was our opposite neighbor. 

i^6S 



DUCLAIR 

She announced her calling and her station in life in 
as pronounced a manner as her car proved her to be 
one of the votaries of Venus. She gave her orders 
to the waiter with singular familiarity; she talked 
to her maid, who now sat beside her, as she might to 
a confidante. 

Maid and mistress were anxiously eyeing the ap- 
proaching bac. One caught murmurs of agitated 
queryings, ejaculations, and sighs: 

"If only he got the telegram!" 

"Suppose he is not at home. He may have gone 
to the Deauvillc races!" were flung out with no 
attempt at veiling the tremor of anxiety. 

In spite of the perturbed expression on the face of 
this descendant of Thais, no form of mental anguish 
could impair the charm of her appearance. With 
the scent of the pervasive perfumed sachets there 
was swept to the sense the agreeable vision of a 
creature perfectly, exquisitely gowned. The dust 
and wind of a motor trip had been considered in the 
choice of the light warmth of the summer tweed; 
the close lines of the Amazon-fitting skirt draped 
lines of molded perfection. The loose, transparent 
blouse, frilling at the corsage opening, and the con- 
volvuli -garlanded hat set off a face whose delicate 
olives blent in exquisite gradations with the luminous 
hazel eyes and the masses of dark hair, whose ruddy 
flashes had, for a high light, the sweep of carmine 
across the full curved lips. 

In spite of the youthful outlines of cheek and 
brow, there was a science of life in the pretty creat- 



HP Tin: SKINK TO TlIK lUTTLKKiril.OS 

lire's smile, in llio very voillng of Ikm* swift gluncos. 
Ilor whole i)ersoiuilily revealed a lype exlraordiimry 
in its coiii])leleiiess. She breathed life, freedom, 
emaneii)alion from conventional ruling; yet there 
was neilher elTronlery nor insolence in manner, voiee, 
gesture; there was also a ('oui|)iele absence of Ihat 
sense of self-abasement so characterislie a lra.il of 
tlie French votaries of Vimuis. 

The snorling of the barge's engine brought both 
women to I he balcony edge. 

The maid's quick eyes first caughl sight of a I all 
figure pressing ils way lliroiigh llie crowd. 

" }\)lld, MoiLsicurr' she crietl, Iriumph in her tone. 
Through a group of peasants and workmen a gentle- 
man, booted and s]>in-red, elbowed his way to the 
boat's lauding -])lauks. To tjie two waving their 
hands from the balcony he raised his hat. 

He was grcclcd wilh thai ])rolongcd roll — that roll 
of exuberant delighl, wilh ils slaccalo notes — to 
those caressing, ex])losive ejaculations characteristic 
of French nu'cliugs. 

The gentlenuin himself aiTccted an English pldegm. 
lie was even ungracious, lie was visibly irrilahMl. 
lie sealed himself sipiarely before the la<ly from 
Paris. And only then h(^ asked his question. 

"Bi(Mi -what in Heaven's name is the nu^aning of 
this? What has happened? What brought you 
here?" 

The woman curled the coil of her grace across the 
table. She laid her manicured linger-tips on the 
man*s broad, sunburnt jiand. 



i)ii( lAin 

"IVfon pclir, lislcii. Tl Is IxmtIMc— and funny — 
oil, l>nl, I'liuny! Yon will lanjuli and cry .dl in I lie 
same moment. Ima^'ino to yonrscll", mannna — 
in;inuna — yes, .she marries! — elU; .se marie — to- 
morrow, no K'dcr llum to-morrow, if yon please! 
And to whom do yon lliiidv? To lli(> lanjer of lions! 
Yes, to tliat dre.'idfnl creatnre! lie lui.s hy])iioiiz(^d 
licr ,iiid slie writes slie sells everything- and then 
in;irries, lo follow liini - all over (he world. Yes, 
only thai." 

'*W<'II?" mon<)sylhd)le<l ]i(>r vis-iVvis. 

"Rnl it cinnot he! It nnisl he sto|)ped! I ^o 
to-m*^dil, yes, this very night, to slop it ;ill Ijie sale, 
the marriage, everything — and to pnt that creatnre 
where he belongs, out in the cold! with oidy liis 
maillot for covering. He can s<'e how he lil<es laming 
m«' ins! cad of the lions — or mamma! Folic— that is 
what she is!" 

As she Jiad projdiesled, lier vIs-a-vIs was l.'inghlng. 
Tlie mingled gaiety ;ind Jinger with which Ijie onl- 
burst had been delivered Jiad broken <lown his 
reserves. He entered, on<' could see, more .-iiid nior<; 
into I Ik- spirit of lh(> a<lvcnlnr<'. We hcjird him, at 
tjie last, olfering to help in the ejeclion of Ijie lion- 
tamer — "only — you see, at the cli.lteau, thx^'e is a 
housefid," lie ad<led, with a shrug, as though 
infinilely i)n'fcrring tlie ])ros])ect of a })()ut wllh a 
tamer of wild beasts to tlu' enforced entertainment 
of his own set. 

In tlu; ciul he was forci'd to lake tlu' last ])oat 
across to tlu; opposite sju)re. As the hue move<l off, 

«7l 



Ur THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

the white automobile, the white coat and I urban, 
the toy terrier and the maid, were whirk'd away 
toward Caudebec. 

It was a rehef to wander forth along the bright little 
streets, to have done wilh a. seen(\ amusing if you will, 
but one that, like I he orris saehels, left the sense of 
an overladen, somewhat offensive atmosphere. 



The sun was now at the last moment of its golden 
splendor. The disLuil, forested hills wor(> veils of 
mist}^ amber tones. The river was flushed with 
pale yellow tints, that melted into delienle violets 
that turned its surface to the color of a sjiring pansy. 

Against the sliores the waters bid)bled and bab- 
bled. The si)iral poi)lai*s iiud the young, slender 
lindens sent their attenualtd shapes to tremble upon 
the light bosom of the river — long, purplish shadows 
that rose and fell as tiiough there were a beating 
heart below the bosom of the water. 

As the violet shadows deepened across the river 
breadth, two other shai>es loomed forth under the 
distant trees. The picture was now complete. 
Into this delicate world of <lyiug amber and golden 
hues a girl in a pale-i)ink gown and a white filmy 
scarf stood for a moment, looking out across at tliQ 
sliadow-i)eopled river. The man beside her stood 
for a long moment still, motionless, as though he also, 
felt he nuisl i)ay tribute to ihe fading glories of thcs 
beautiful day, 

272 



DUCLAIR 

With a sudden swift movement he turned, his 
one good arm was shot out, and tlie pink gown 
and fihny scarf were clasped tight to the soldier- 
bhies. 

We k'f t them. The hour and the coming secrecies 
of the enveloi)ing night were made for lovers, for the 
right lovers, for those who evoked the sigh of a sort 
of sweet envy. 

There was one more picture for us the river was 
to give us before we slept. 

Boat-calls, steam-whistles, tootings brought us to 
our oi)en windows. 

The tide was at its full. Far as the eye could 
penetrate there was a long chain of lights. Tall 
masts, dark funnels, shapes of great ships loomed out 
of the darkness. They trod the waters with silent 
feet, only the continuous beating of the waves against 
the embankment proving the unending procession of 
the vessels that had left their moorings at Rouen to 
float down the river to the open sea. 

Bright lights in cabins, red, green, and blue lights 
at stern or prows, sent their polychrome reflections 
into the night of the dark waters. 

This chain of lights was dim as it wound around 
the curve of the Seine reaches; it became of starry 
brilliance as it passed below our windows, its flashing 
splendor trembling upon the bosom of the river as 
might jewels on a woman's breast, and far down 
toward the next bend of the shore the lights went out 
one by one like stars that sank before the dawn. 

And the floating of this long line of ships went on 

273 



niul on iitilil \\w dawn louclicd willi its rosy rinp^<M-s 
llio tail niasLs iuul llir i)ainkHl i'uiuiols. 



II 

Tlio next morning's rnn along tlic Seine slionr. 
yielded more of lliose suiprises in wliieli all <»iir 
journey had Ikhmi so rich. 'I'iie road laii <-lose lo (he 
river; it was so (•K)se (here was only a I'ringe ol' lall 
shruhs and gra.ss(\s helween us and the brilliant, 
gleaming wjilers. 

The eonidry side ol' our road was Ji eonlinnons 
orehard when it was not a. garden. 'I'liis eonlrasi 
behvccn the hind's IVrlilily and Ihe wi(h* river, so 
close lo the larmlands, was lull oC charm; one's 
liead was kepi i)erpelnally bobbing abonl, I'rom one 
side lo the olher, fearing to lose a single j)ietorial 
fealnre. 

As on and on we went, I lie road s<vmed in con- 
nivance wilh Ihis nnlonched prosperity lo hold nj) 
to us the ])orlrail ol' Ihe France the (lerinan coveled 
and conld not capture. Every turn ol' the wlu>el 
showed ns those leatures that have made the long- 
continued reign ol' French W(^all]i. There were I'al 
caiilc gluttonously feeding in deep grasses; there 
w«M"e busy jx'asanl women raking in hay or helping 
to tie up the sheaves of wheal; boys were plowing, 
old men were digging up potatoes or driving a <lonk(\y 
to the nearest market; pigs of prodigious size wtM'c 
grunting and grubl>ing; and hens were cackling. 

The whole country ])resente<l that scene of rustic 

ill 



DUCLAIR 

prosper! ly that makes the French peasaiils' has de 
lainc lire deep purse tliat has rescued P'rance again 
antl again i'roni disaster. 

"C^est ccla, Madame, qui a 'pay 6 la dctic de la 
France,^' the famous Madame Poulard of the better 
days of Mont-Saint-Michel once said to me. She 
wore tlien lier long l)lue apron; and lo emi)hasize 
her remark she had given her wide pocket a signifi- 
cant tap. In the years Ihat have passed since har<l- 
working, successful Frencli business women could 
affirm it was their savings that had so greatly helped 
to pay the milliards demanded })y Bismarck as 
France's indenmity for an unsuccessful war, limes 
have changed. The 6a.s' de lainc, I he deep pockets 
in blue aprons, do not pour out their treasures as 
readily as forty years ago, when the gold ran like a 
Pactohan stream. It is Germany's turn to pay. 



CHAPTER XIX 



THE L.\ST VOYAGE 



/^UR embarkation on the Havre-Rouen boat at 
^-^ Candebec in niiclstreani was effected with a 
seriousness with which one does not honor a trans- 
atlantic crossing. 

A small boat, manned hy a lad, finally appeared at 
a landing in front of the hotel. It had required 
some hours to find the owner of the boat, to learn 
its proposed place of taking on its passengers, and 
at what hour to be on hand so as not to miss it. 
Only an Oriental town and OiitMital waj^s of con- 
ducting practical matters could match Caudebec's 
sluggish indifference and apathy in furthering the 
comfort and pleasin-e of the traveling i)ublic. 

The group assembled on the stone landing, mean- 
while, was growing in numbers. The slender oars- 
man seemed inadequate to rowing so many able- 
bodied men and women across e\'en a calm river 
surface. The tempting effects of la piece blanche 
was offered to an athletic -muscled sailor, whose 
jersey and nautical air suggested his familiarity with 



THE LAST \X)YAGE 

the sea. Tlio offoct of the silver coin w.as inst.inianc- 
oiis. We wore rowed hy an expert to tlie hoal's side. 

Here we were met by a storm of anger. The 
captain hnrled down at onr two oarsmen a series of 
rei)roaches and invectives, and with threats wliich, 
in their tnrn, were pnnctnated b}' freqnent gusts of 
profanity. AVhy was only one boat brought, when 
he had signaled for two.'^ Why could orders never 
be obeyed.^ Here were twenty passengers who 
meant to go ashore, some bicycles, and a baby- 
carriage. How could these be carried in a boat as 
big as a baby's cradle.? And to-morrow — did these 
insenses not know to-morrow was a fete-day at 
Caudebec, and then, if only one boat were brought! 

INIeanwhile I was experiencing a certain pride in 
having picked out my man. The broad-faced, good- 
natured, capable creature had stored away every one 
of the twenty passengers, the two bicycles, and the 
baby-carriage. He was ready to dip his oars and 
steer for the shore before the captain was done with 
his harangue. 

Our own boat was also moving up-river. The 
calm of the river life captured us almost as soon as 
our seats were placed in the very prow of the boat. 

Once more the magic of the Seine held us to pay 
forfeit to its charm. Looking upon the shore of 
wliich only a few hours ago we had been a part, and 
now viewing the great hills, the landscape, the disap- 
I)earing town of Caudebec set among its rising 
heights, was to find the whole scene wondrously 
amplified. As the river began to turn, as it were 

19 iJ77 " 



IV Tin: SEINE TO THE BAT'rLEElELDS ' 

upon ilsolf, rouiuliiii'' llio lon^i;" i>cninsiilii of Jiiinieges, 
the grmulour of I lie iiiouulains following;, on llio 
riglil, in IIumi* j^tooii, siiulil suiihium- fullness of vcr- 
(luro, i)ro(hK\Hl a luosl impivssivo oUVct of Invadlli, 
lioiglil, and Iiixiiruincc. 

Tlio forests of Le Trail, llio hoaiiliful forest of 
Brotonne, and now \\\v forest of JuniicVes llirough 
whose leafy enihrace I lie i^real a.bhaye lifled its two 
crowns us I hough iuslsleully lo doniinale the scene 
us ecMilnries ago the monks had rukxl it — Ihese great 
towers and the wooded hills were following shai)es — 
the forests indeed ended only with the close islands 
about Rouen, 

The pictures Ihal unrolled themselves succeeded 
one anolluM" all loo (juiekly. There were ])aslures on 
one side of the river, })eo}>led with cattle, their red- 
and-white hides carrying sj)ots of color to accentuate 
the greens. Tliere were the curious fornuilions of 
the hills which seem symmetrically sculptured to 
give place lo valleys; and along these fertile valleys 
you could watch the quiet, placid country life li\'ing 
itself out as centuries ago it lived, undiu* terrors of 
wars and invasions our ei)och luis but seen repealed. 
A chateau lower, farms, liny villas, spoke for Ihe 
sense of recai)tured tranquillity. Windows were 
open, gardens were in bloom, an indescribable peace 
permeated Ihe alniosi>here. 

Duclair was passed again. It wore its same bright , 
alert air, as of a little town ready lo meet the emt^r- 
gencies and demands of any century with a smiling 
energy. Beyond the town were some curious white- 



'I III-: I. AST VOYAdl-: 

clijilk <|ii;irrl('.s, in wlilcli, II Is sniM, any iuiiiiIkt of 
people slill live, ])rereniii^ lliis Iio^^NkIvIc li.ihila- 
lioii lo all olliers. ('eiinili .slits in |Im> rocks 
sliowod wcll-cul windows — curlniiiod — nnd iKiiiiled 
doors. 

'I'lie Seine look JUioilier ^re;il sw<M'p a.n<l llie 
fores! of Muuiiy rose n|) lo eonlinne (lie ]^n\^ lines 
ilial sirelcli luross lli<> liori/on like woven /.;reen 
lii|)eslries. 

There is a famous Norman clnnHrli for wliieli we 
weri' ea;^<'rly walchin^ willi iJie liop<' loomin;^' lai'^'e 
of ils ^yieldin^' up ils fine oullines llnon/^li IIk^ low, 
ihickly wooded plain on oni' lefl. 

St.-Marlin-de-lJoseJierville, formerly St.-G(!orges- 
de-Hosehervillo, is known lo arclnlt'els as one of liio 
few Norman eJun-c'hes which were bnill, all of a pie(re, 
HO to sj)eak. One nnisi go hack as far as llie elevenlJi 
crnlury lo find ils generous hnihhvr. In (he slalely 
cliAlean-forl of 'i'ankerville, which we j)a,ssed just 
afler leaving Havre, Raoul do Tankerville, a chain- 
herlain of William (he Conqueror, prohahly canghl; 
his didve's mama for church-hnihling. 

There was a passion Ihal lea,j)e(l forlli from llie walls 
of I his aiuienl clnu'ch nioi'c poleni, and far mor-e 
<'onlagious, Ihaii llie ei-eclion of ('hrisliaii <'hnrclies. 
The legend of llie chah'aii on I he opposile of I he 
river has lived longer Ihan llu^ fires lighled hy IhaL 
flume were permilLed to incite two souls lo court 
<lumnuUon. 

A sliorl <lislance across Ihe Seine Ihere rises uj) a 

fine i?eiialssance chaleau. A chapel in to be 

i7\i 



S(vii si ill iiilacl I lull ^aA'c I lie opporl iiiiily lo a 
<*('rl;iiii euro ol' Sl.-Cicor^cs (Ic-noscliciN illc, .'iimI I<> 
I lie lair oliaU'l;iiiu' ol' (lie period, U> play willi llu' 

fillt'S. 

Tlu' cliAleiU! is known lo Ihis i\i\y as \\\c Clialcan 
<ln (\>rs(>l R()u«;('. In (lie lale as il lias K-oinc <lo\vn 
lo ns lIuM'c arc lliosc cKMiicnls of passion, ol' religions 
ohsorvaiK'cs inl<'iinin^U><l willi I lie ^aiclics ol' hi<;li 
life and ol' ivvollin^' ci nelly we assoeialo willi the 
llenaissance epoch. 

'I'lic cine, il a.])pcars, came o^■eI• on ccrlain days 

lo say mass al I lie clialcan cliap(l. 'riiere were 

al limes I'orhiilons days and eviMiin<j;s when M. le 

('uie wonld |)i()lon^' his \isils; when ^ood diiuiers 

iind cards and li^^hl lalk wonld ine\ilal)ly lead lo a 

desire lo enliven Ihe solilnde ol' a. charnn'n^' an<l 

lemplin<;ly beaiilirnl chalelaine. On ccrlain jonr- 

ne\s of ihe masler of Ihe honse, ihe cinv's A'isils were 

])rolon^tMl. On a ccrlain falalday IhcA'isil wasoAcr- 

j)rolon^"ed. 'The chalelain appcar(>d, when leasl 

exjx'clcd, as il is cA'cr r(>corded lo he l]ie case in 

snch Ihrillin^ lales of conjnj;al inlidelily. 'I'he <le- 

ceived «;(nll(Mnan api)ears lo have l)e<>n of a, vio- 

l<Mil leinperament , an<I of an appelile for innnedialc 

aclion which had Ihe mosl lia|;ic resnils. Il<' killed 

his rival, and, possessin<^' an imai;inalion which 

o'erleai)s onr modern raii^e, he adjnd^'cd lo his nn- 

failhfnl s])onse a form of i)nnishmenl that lifls him 

lo Ihe criminal devillries of the Borpas. Not only 

nnisl a ccrlain corsel he slee])ed in Ihe l)loo(l of his 

viclim hnt it ninsl he worn! 

seso 




r 



ffi r ', : ■ .' 



I r 










i 






< III |(( II ol llli; AllllAYK Ol' HT. -(JK()I{(;K «>I' IIOCIIKIIVII.MO 



THE LAST VOYAGE 

"Imagine any husband, in these days, caring 
enough to take such a revenge!" 

"In these days a man can have as many wives as 
he pleases — seriatim — be it strictly observed — so 
why bother about one?" 

The voices behind me had taken no pains to mur- 
mur their skeptical raillery. I divined the speakers 
to be both too young to take other than a jocose 
view of the tragedy. The raillery went on. But 
the starting into view of rocks that seemed to have a 
certain family likeness to our Hudson River Palisades 
decided us to change our seats. The rocks were of 
all sorts of shapes, fantastic, irruptive, strangely and 
weirdly colored. 

In a sudden opening, beneath an overhanging shelf 
of rock, fixed and immobile, like carved statues on a 
pedestal, the figures of two nuns appeared. In their 
black habits and long veils, their heads bent over 
their breviary, their appearance was sensational. 
That is precisely what the projector of this innocent 
joke on the traveling public intended. 

The owner of a chateau on the other side of the 
rock-faced mountain conceived this original idea of 
ornamenting the dramatic aspect of these curious- 
shaped hills by introducing a religious note. He 
has achieved his purpose; for, at a first glance, one 
could never imagine those realistic figures to be 
inanimate — though why two nuns should choose to 
read the office of the hour on a narrow ledge of 
rock, in a damp and dimly lighted, cavelike pro- 
jection, could scarcely be convincingly explained. 

281 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

II 

A more interesting conversation than that of the 
two triflers with Hfe was going on at my elbow. Two 
elderly men were discussing Marcchal Foch's strat- 
egy. One of the gentlemen compared certain of his 
"offensives" to the tactics Napoleon made use of. 
There followed an animated talk in which the great 
modern generaFs close study of the methods pursued 
by the master of strategy were cleverly stated and 
analyzed. 

"And, you know, we are now approaching the 
column that commemorated Napoleon's remains 
being transferred to the smaller boat, to take them 
up to Courbevoie — " 

This inter jectional remark set me quivering. To 
look upon this column had been the really animating 
purpose of my insistent desire to investigate this 
part of the Seine by boat. 

Years ago I had decided I must see the eagle that 
crowned the column — find its exact emplacement, 
and relive, in the very surroundings of river and 
landscape, the historic passing of that great 
scene. 

I now surrendered myself to the grip of the excite- 
ment possessing me. I had no further desire to 
watch river lights or broad plains or to be awed by 
towering hills. I was set on one purpose — to watch 
for the column. "Wlien would it appear? 

The boat made a plunge shoreward, as though to 
facilitate my earnest search. In an incredibly short 

282 



THE LAST VOYAGE 

while a village above tlie low shore-line appeared — 
one I had been told to look for. 

This, then, was Val de la Haye. Somewhat re- 
moved from the shore, yet close enough to find it 
disappointing, from any point of view, as an imposing 
monument, a short column surmounted by an eagle 
and rising from the base of a pedestal, rose up shaded 
by some trees. 

The column seemed indeed inadequate, and far 
too modest a reminder of as moving, as great an 
event. Memory flew to supply what the somewhat 
mean-looking column failed to commemorate with 
becoming pomp or beauty. The spectacle of the 
passing of Napoleon's remains reappeared as I had 
seen it represented in illuminating pages — and this 
is what I saw and remembered: 



CHAPTER XX 

napoleon's remains conveyed from ST. HELENA 
UP THE SEINE 



WHILE Louis Philippe was still king, was still 
nominally, at least, ruler of France, his short 
reign was ennobled by one act of retributive justice. 
An account, graphic, picturesque, and one painted 
in vivid colors, of the transportation of Napoleon's 
body from his all-but-forgotten grave in St. Helena, 
across the seas, and up the Seine to Courbevoie, 
close to Paris, is left us in the then young Prince de 
Joinville's Vieux Souvenirs. 

This young prince, third son of Louis Philippe, had 
entered the navy at an early age. His two brothers, 
the Princes de Chartres and d'Aumale, being in the 
army, had been despatched to take command of 
certain divisions under the Marechal Valee, and sent 
to Mousaia. Joinville saw them depart with a 
certain envy, since, shortly after, during his leave in 
Paris, the prince had been taken ill. 

In the Palace of the Tuileries there appeared one 
day, in this winter of 1840, at his bedside, the king, 
his father, and Monsieur Remusat, the latter then 
IVIinister of the Interior, "an unexpected visit which 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

filled me with surprise," the prince confesses. "My 
amazement increased when my father said to me, 
*Joinville, thou wilt start forth for Ste.-Helene and 
bring back Napoleon's coffin.' "^ 

One might well have been "surprised" at receiving 
a far less astounding order. The young prince con- 
fides to us in his Memoirs that had he not been in bed 
he would have fallen to the ground. "At first," he 
admits, "I was in no sense flattered by the errand of 
undertaker on which I was being sent, in another 
hemisphere. However," he added, quickly, "I was 
a soldier, and it was not my right to discuss an 
order." 

While the prince was convalescing, this project of 
bringing back Napoleon's remains to France not 
only was convulsing the press and the country, but 
in the Chambre des Deputes was the occasion of 
unchaining those political passions which the very 
name of Napoleon could not fail to arouse in a 
France not yet freed from its own "violent fever" 
of successive revolutionary attacks. 

While Napoleon had been suffering "persecution," 
as he himself terms his treatment, during his im- 
prisonment, at the hands of his English captors, and 
neglect during the long years he had been lying in 
the only quiet his great spirit had ever known, in his 
tomb at St. Helena, France had removed their 
crowns from the heads of two kings — one of whose 
crowns had been sanctified at Rheims — had at- 
tempted to establish two revolutions, and was now 

^ Prince do Joinville, Vieux Souvenirs, 1818-48 

285 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

anything but tranquil under this, their third accepted 
monarcli. 

Louis Phib'ppe possessed the neutral virlues of 
good intentions. But the Revolution had made the 
bourgeoisie the true French king. The Chanibre was 
now the arena where the struggle of these two 
rivals — this growing, new bourgeois France and the 
dying feudal conception of monarchy — was already 
come to violent death-grips. 

Thiers's project — for it was entu'cly his — to restore 
to France the dead body of its greatest conqueror 
was a political trick. He needed, as prime ministers 
are often in need of such subterfuges, a new rallying 
force in his favor for insuring a large majority in the 
coming election. 

Things political in France were in a dangerous 
state. Thiers, as head of the government, had felt 
the pulse of the people and had found it alarmingly 
feverish. There was neither enthusiasm nor life in 
the body politic for politics as it was then being 
manipulated. 

The times were critical. 

There had been several fluctuating conspiracies; 
the dangerous principle of "the rights of man" was 
gaining headway. The bourgeoisie were fighting 
their way inch by inch to gain pre-eminence; the 
battle between the monarchical principle and the 
parliamentarian principle was reaching a climax. 
All reverence, all consideration for royalty were 
declining. The bourgeoisie, having accepted Louis 
Philijjpe as king, had believed this restoration of 

28G 



LAST JOURNEY VV THE SEINE 

monarchy — of a constitutional king "who reigns hut 
docs not govern" — would hold the })eople in clieck. 
But the bourgeoisie, being above all else a class 
governed l)y self-interest, ignored the people and the 
l)oor. The rights of num, therefore, were being 
lislened to. Thiers, wherever he looked, heard 
grumbling thunder in the political air. A lightning 
stroke might clear the atmosphere. 

Strong remedies, Thiers felt, must immediately be 
administered. V Ennui dc la France must be dissi- 
paled. Stimulants, and exciting ones, must be 
resorted to. Thiers was to be delivered, under the 
presence of what he felt to be a political crisis, of one 
of his most original, as it was assuredly one of his 
most genial, projects. No fiction-writer, however 
gifted as an inventive or imaginative author, but must 
concede that, for a prime minister to send thousands 
of miles for the dead body of the man whom France 
had repudiated, sacrificing the ''adventurer" to 
placate Europe; whose imprisonment for seven 
years had been accepted as just punishment for his 
audacious attempt to rule Europe and his failure at 
Waterloo; whose body had been allowed to remain 
under the willows of St. Helena for eighteen years 
luisought, unsung — for Tliiers to have conceived of 
the project of stimulating popular favor by resur- 
recting the Napoleonic legend was to prove himself 
a master of exjjediency. 

France took its tonic dose at first with unsus- 
pecting rapture. Emotion rose to high i)itch in the 
Chambre when Remusat, in a thi'illing speech, an- 

«87 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

nounced to the Deputies that "In honor of glory and 
of genius, of greatness and of misfortune," the de- 
cision had been reached that France should ask of 
England permission to have Napoleon's body brought 
back to rest in French soil. The very unexpected- 
ness of this great event enhanced the enthusiasm 
with which its announcement was met. The Cham- 
bre was adjourned "in order to give full sway to 
sentiments that were overflowing, and to allow a 
poetry hitherto unknown under these arches to take 
its flight." 

The press took up the mounting note of exultation, 
of this a nation's reawakened enthusiasm for its 
national hero. All France, in a word, was once more 
under the glamour of a name that was as a glorious 
trumpet-call; that enabled every Frenchman to 
remember, in love and gratitude, the conqueror who 
had conquered Europe, placing France high above all 
nations, and whose downfall had sown, it was now 
believed, all the disasters, disaffections, and uncer- 
tainties which even this third kingship could not 
avert or control. 

Divided though Bonapartists, legitimists, consti- 
tutionalists, all parties might be, the malady of 
VEnnui de la France had been succeeded, in any 
case, by the greatest awakening of popular enthu- 
siasm seen in the kingdom since 1811 — since the 
birth of Napoleon's son, the King of Rome. 

One voice, and only one, was raised against the 
universal choir of joyous acclamation. But the 
voice was that of the greatest of the French poets 

288 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

and orators of his day. Lamartine, who had been 
nursed by his mother in hatred of Napoleon, found 
in this historic event the cuhninating point of his 
oratorical powers. His speech, delivered before the 
fullest meeting of the Chambre in many a day, 
stands among tliose which proved to a critical world 
that a master orator had arisen. The speech itself 
was accepted unanimously as a masterpiece. Too 
lengthy to reproduce in its entirety, certain para- 
graphs, at least, can be quoted, as proving the pitch 
of eloquence attained. 

After having expressed his lack of enthusiasm for 
the whole project Lamartine said, "I should not 
have considered it a misfortune for the memory of 
Napoleon had his destiny left him a still longer time 
under the willows of Ste.-Helene." ^ 

"Had this great general been a completely great 
man, an irreproachable citizen; had he been the 
Washington of Europe; if, after having defended the 
territory, he had regulated, moderated, organized the 
liberal institutions and the dawn of democracy in 
France; ... if he had made himself the providence 
of the people; if, after having put in motion the 
springs of a temperate military government, he had 
effaced himself, as did Solon and the lawmaker of 
America; if he had retired, behind his disinterested- 
ness and his glor^^ to leave full play to liberty — who 
knows if all the homage of a crowd that chiefly 
adores that which crushes it would have been 
rendered him.'^ Who knows if he would not sleep 

. 1 LouLj Barthon, Laniarline, Orateur, 191G. 

289 



UP THE SEINE TO IlIE BATTLEFIELDS 

moro quiclly, and perhaps more neglected, in his 
tomb?" 

C I'l-tain phrases in this great speech arc singularly 
significant of the innnense power wielded by time, in 
atljudgiiig ihe value of men whose exploits are i)layed 
out before liie eyes of eoulemi)oraries. Wlio now 
wouUl couple Mirabeau, Barnave, and Bailly with 
the great name of Napoleon? 

Yet Lamarline, in alluding to the heroes whom 
France hatl not honored, ijivokes Ihe memory of 
Mirabeau: ''Wliere is he? lie rests in the cellar of 
a secular building that twice has been used as a 
sewer." lie refers to Barnave and to Bailly, "who 
sleep unknown, with the remains of other revolu- 
tionary heroes." He gives to Lafayette the more 
glorious praise, "lying under the humble cross of a 
family tomb"! 

"And the man of the cighleenth Brumaire, the 
num to whom France owes everything except liberty, 
a trium])hanl Revolulion is to go beyond the seas 
to give him an imi)erial lomb! This triumphant 
Revolution — I ask you — is there on J^'rench soil a 
mouumenl large enough, sacred enough, national 
enough lo contain i I? . . . Be careful- reflect on Ihe 
encouragements given to genius, al all costs. I 
doubt Iheir elt'ect on our fulure. I do not care for 
those men who have as ollieial doclrine liberly, 
legalily, progress, and who take as a symbol u 
sword and despotism. . . ." 

The s(Misations and reflections evoked l)y these 

daring attacks on Napoleon's methods of govern- 

seuu 



LAST JOURNEY UP TIIIC SIJNE 

men!, and his conquests served ^'really to eool ilie 
iiioiinlln;^' wave of unconsidered enlliusiasni IliaL Iiad 
swayed tlie Chambrc. 1 1 is recorded llial "the 
sensation creah'd was profound and uin'versal." 

General ai)prol)ation acclainied Lainartine's i)re- 
sentnient of tlie i)regnant query: 

"Where shall the great tomb be placed? In the 
Invalides? Under the Colunui of the Place de 
Vendonie? In the Madeleine? At the Pautheon? 
At St.-Denis? There he would shine solely by 
virtue of his isolation. There are contacts that 
history and even stones should avoid. AL the 
Arc de Triojnj)he? It is too ])agan. Death is 
sacred, and its resting-place must be in sanctified 
ground," 

At this point the great orator ai)])ears to have 
been gifted with prophetic vision; for he exclaims: 

"If the future, as we may hope, reserves for ua 
other trium])hs, what conqueror, what general would 
dare to pass beneath the Arc?" 

"Such a decision would be to interdict the Arc 
de Triomphe; it would be to close tlie door of 
national glory which must remain open for our 
future destinies." 

Had Lamartine, indeed, foreseen, as in a vision, the 
"coming of the glory of the Lord"? Had the ])oet 
who is also seer dimly divined the return of the 
jnillions of conquering heroes, of all the nations who 
fought victoriously for "liberty, legalily, and l)rog- 
ress"? Had his fine ear caught ihe rhythmic ca- 
dence of those war-\\'eai-y feet, stei)ping to the 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

intoxicating music of Victory, making tlie arches of 
the great Arc de Triomphe ring with the glorious 
paean of Democracy triumphant? 



In his peroration, Lamartine proved his powers of 
discernment and his art in manipulating the diffi- 
culties of concihation. "\^Qlile he "proclaims the 
rights of apotheosis and of admiration in order to 
persuade the people to listen to the voice of public 
reason," he contends that while his vote would be 
cast for placing the Emperor's remains in the Champ 
de Mars, "where Napoleon would be alone, and 
where his statue and his genius would again pass in 
review our soldiers," Lamar tine's preference for this 
particular emplacement is less zealous than is his 
earnest desire to have the right inscription engraved 
on the statue or tomb destined to perpetuate his 
memory. 

"Remember to inscribe on that monument, where 
he must be at once known as soldier, consul, legis- 
lator, emperor — remember to write thereon the 
only inscription that proclaims at once your enthu- 
siasm and your prudence, the only inscription which 
can honor this unique man and satisfy the difficult 
times in which we live. Let it be 

To Napoleon, only. 

"These three words, attesting that this military 
genius had no equal, will prove at the same time to 

292 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

France, to Europe, to the world, that if this generous 
nation knows how to honor its great men, she also 
judges them, she can distinguish their mistakes, she 
can even separate them from their race and from 
those who menaced liberty in their name, and in 
raising this monument, in thus replacing this great 
memory, she has no thought of kindling from these 
ashes either war, or tyranny, or legitimists, or 
pretenders, or imitators." 

The effect produced on his audience of such elo- 
quence was electric. For once, at least, a great 
oratorical effort bore immediate results. The Cham- 
bre revoked the credit of two millions of francs it 
had voted, and the sum originally proposed, a million 
for the expenses involved in the removal of the 
remains, was universallj'^ adjudged. 



II 

While Paris was following, with passionate interest, 
every varying phase of these debates in the Chambre, 
the Prince de Joinville was rapidly convalescing. 

On being pronounced fit to take up his command, 
de Joinville started for Toulon. His duty, at least, 
was clear before him; unvexed by either political 
or sentimental obscurities, the young prince, as a 
"soldier," could follow in the path of duty marked 
out by his superiors with but one paramount longing 
— to get through with his task and to see it well done. 

De Joinville's own opinion of Napoleon is clearly, 
unmistakably rendered. 

20 293 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEril!:LDS 

*' Above Napoleon, an enemy of my race, the 
assassin of the Due d'Enghien, who in his fall had 
precipitated a France ruined, dismembered, into the 
jaws of that redoubtable game of chance in which 
naive crowds are so often victims of the political 
croupier 'universal suffrage' (above this Napoleon) 
there was the incomparable warrior, whose genius 
had covered, even in defeat, our armies with an 
immortal glory. In going forth to take his ashes 
away from a foreign soil, it was as though we raised 
the conquered flag of France, at least so we hoped, 
and this point of view reconciled me with my 
mission." ^ 

It was with such really noble and elevated senti- 
ments that the prince set forth. Carrying with 
him all his ministerial and royal orders, he retook 
command of his frigate. La Belle Poule. 

His Royal Highness, Francis Ferdinand Philipe 
Louis Marie d'Orleans, Prince de Joinville, was then 
in what is poetically termed the very flower of his 
youth. Thackeray, in his somewhat satirical ac- 
count of "The Second Funeral of Napoleon," gives 
us, in relenting mood, a flattering portrait of the 
prince and of the crew of La Belle Povle: 

" Monseigneur, my dear, is really one of the finest 
young fellows it is possible to sec. A tall, broad- 
chested, slim-waisted, brown-faced, dark-eyed young 
prince, with a great beard (and other martial quali- 
ties, no doubt) beyond his years. As he strode into 
the Chapel of the Invalides he made no small im- 

' I'rmce dc Juiiuillc, Vicux Souvenirs. 

294 



LAST JOURNFA' UP THE SEINE 

pression, I can tell you, upon the ladies assembled 
to witness the ceremony. . . . 

"Nor are the crew of the Belle Poiile less agreeable 
to look at than their commander. A more clean, 
smart, active, well-limbed set of lads never 'did 
dance' upon the deck of the famed i?c//ePow/e. . . ." 

The youthful connnander speaks himself with 
enthusiasm of the joy he experienced in being once 
more among his "brave gens," his sailors and crew 
seeming to him like a second family. 

Some of Napoleon's most devoted friends and 
followers, those who composed what was called the 
mission to St. Helena — General Bertrand, M. de 
Las Cases, and General Gourgaud as well as others — 
were among the passengers on La Belle Poule. 

Of the questionable taste of General Gourgaud, in 
thus associating himself with these other tried 
friends of the "great warrior," what must one think 
after reading M. Frederic Masson's illuminating 
pages? ^ 

The facts of Gourgaud's treacheries not being 
known to the world of that day as fully as they are 
to ours, de Joinville enlarges on the pleasure and 
profit derived from the conversation of these inti- 
mates of Napoleon. The long journey was agreeably 
shortened by these contributions made to the already 
daily growing Napoleonic legend. 

But it was no imaginative, historical record to 
which those listened who were privileged to hear the 
men who had been side by side with the Emperor 

1 Fr^d^ric Masson, Napoleon d Raintc-lUlhne, 1815-25. 

295 



nr Till': sic ink to tiii: B.vrn-KFiin.DS 

in many of his groalosL adilcvomonls, wlio had 
followtxl liini in balllo, who luul soon him at Iht' 
zonilh of his power, and had followed him into 
exile. 

An idea of llie geoj^raphical dislanee to which the 
allies anil I'^nglish jnslice had exiled Nai)oleon ean 
best be jndged by following the prince's narralive 
of his voyage. The BclLc Poulc lonch(>d firsl al 
Cadiz; then at the i)ort of TenerilVe for waler an<l 
snpi)lies; finally, going across Ihe Allanlic, Hahia, 
Brazil, was chosen as a route })rereral)Ie lo rt)unding 
the Cape of Good Hope. From Ualila Ihere was a 
long, nnevenlfnl journey of many weeks across the 
Australian Atlantic, escorted b^^ "numerous alba- 
trosses," to confront at last the grim uprising rocks 
of St. Helena. 

Ill 

The prince describes the island as a "black 
island" of volcanic irru])tive outlines, like ihe 
"Martinicpie, but without its superb vegetation." 
To him it seemed a bit of Scotland planted in the 
midst of the ocean, always frette<l by the alizi,^ a, 
wind sweeping the whole island, with a fatiguing 
continuity. Above the rocky, mountainous heights 
there hung a peri)etual "bonnet" of thick cloutls. 

The town of Jamestown, the cai)ital, the ])rincc 
found to be a miserable village crawling aU)ng a 
narrow valley simk between "sad rocks"; above, on 
the stony heights, gloomed the fortress only to be 

^Tlic winds that blow from ojlsI to west in the lioi)ir.s. 



LAST JOURNEY III' TUV. SFJNK 

reaeli(*(l by u fliglit of six Inindivd sLafrs, A sinister 
gloojn scciiiod to jKTvadc tlic wliolc island, llic 
governor's residence, IMantalion House, tli(^ "valley 
of the tomb," and the grave itself, with its legendary 
willows, as well as liOngwood, Naj)()leon's "prison." 
The whole asju'ct of the island, in<leed, was one well 
ealenlated to "kill hy slow fire" the great, active- 
sonled warrior condemned to die by inches in this 
nielaiicholy, windy pnrgatory. 

The prince gi\ cs scant space to bis interviews with 
the British jiiilitary authorities. One detail of these 
j)reliniinaries is, however, of primal importance. 
Young as de Joinville was, he gave rare proof of 
possessing both sagacity and foresight; he liad no 
nn'nd, he affirms, either to carry back to PVancc 
"imaginary remains" nor a mass of infection. The 
coffin, therefore, it was requested, should be opened. 

This disinterment was a matter of no small 
difficiilly. 

To ]\iajor-Gcncral Ennnett, R.E., wlio fill(>d the 
post of conunanding royal engineer at St. Helena 
during the last years of Napoleon's life, to this 
officer had been confided the task of ])rej)aring 
Naj)oleon's tojnb for the burial of Ins remains. 

The general, at the time of his ai)pointment to his 
post at St. Helena, was gazetted with the local rank 
of jujijor. His account of his labors In cons! meting 
the tomb were first given to the world in 1012.' 

"On examining the ground for the grave," he 
writes, "I decided on making a vault of respectable 

' The Century Magazine, 1912. 

iJ'J7 



UP TTTE SEINE TO TUK 1^ VITLI^FIELDS 

depth. Substantial walls wore made at the sides 
and ends, and a s<u'eoj)liagus for llie rofTin, supported 
on slone pillars, to keep it from the damj). The 
sarcophagus was made of the large flagstones sent 
from England for the kllehen of the new house 
being erected for him, and of others from the gun 
platforms of the balteries." 

Into this carefully i)repared sarcophagus the coflln 
ilself was "lei down by tackles," a large and thick 
flagstone forming ihe covering. "This was again 
covered over l)y courses of masonry set in cement 
and crami)ed with iron, in the presence of Na])oleon's 
staff, such ])recaulions having been desired by them 
to guard ag;ilnsl clnn(U\sline removal." 

On the recinesl by I lie ])riii<'e for an examinaliou 
of Ihe remains, it was arranged I ha I I lie disinlernuMt 
should take i)lace on the 15lh of October, 18K). 

Tliis dale marked the twenly-fifth anniversary of 
Nai)oleon\s arrival at St. Helena. 

In the ])resence of the r<'i)r(>seutalives of France 
and England, the work of exhumalicm was begun; 
the first serious difhculty was the cutling away of 
the bed of masonry, ten and a half feet thick, with 
its iron clasps; undtu* this stone covering was found 
a "strong slone slal) . . . forming lli(> upper surface 
of the inner sarcophagus of wrought slone covering 
the coflin." The sarco])hagus was ready for opening. 
The tlust was then piu-itied by chlorin and the slab 
was raised. 

The coflln was discovered nvsling on wrought- 
slone pillars. The heav.^ coflin was raised by hooks 



TAST JOURNEY UP 1TTR SFJNE 

and .slink's jind lakcn to a leiiL j)rei)urcd for its 
rccei)li()ii. 

A iH'aulIful coffin or s.'ircojiliugus of iHilislicd 
ebony, i)rot«'(:t('<l \>y an oak case, had been went 
from I'^ijiiicc. 

On Llie li<i, inlaid in gold IclLcrs, llic word "Na- 
j)ol('on" liad been set. 

After tlie outer coffin liad been removed, nnder 
IIk' tent, a second lead one; was found, and williin 
tliat OJK' still anol Imi- of wood. 

Tlie body itself hiy witliln tliis wooden cofFln; 
a])Out tlie remains was wra|)j)ed a lining of slieet 
tin, within wliicli a coverlet of wliit<t satin enveloped 
all that dciith ;ind binial had left of Njipoleon. 

The bo<ly, found to l><; in un extraordinary st;i,t(! of 
preservation, was exj)Osed to the air lor but two 
minutes. 

llestorcd to its resting-place, the coflins wercj 
quickly and skilfully closed, and finally secured in the 
leaden on<! brought from Franrte. TIk; key of this 
sare(jj)luigus was given to the French cojumissloner. 

Tlie scene at the grave i)roduccd a jn(rst moving 

impression on the soldiers, the connnissioners, tlie 

Knglish representatives, an<l tiie French cojrimittee. 

'J'lie exhumation took place at night. Silenc(; 

reigned. The great stars of this south<!rn hemi- 

s|)her<' looked down on I he weird spt'^htcle of soldi<-rs 

and gen<'rals in uniform, of jnotionless guards and 

sailors, of grave-faced, i)ale Frenchmen staring down 

;il an ol)long bit of earth into whieli strangely garbed 

men were j)rying. 

«00 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

The only sounds were the dull iluid of the loosened 
earth thrown up on the sides of the grave, the 
jangling of tools and ehains, and the rhythmic 
clangor of the heavy hammering. The awed silence 
was broken also, occasionally, by a command given 
by the English engineer. 

The flickering torches lighted up the scene with 
their yellow flame — a flame that was to spread on 
and on, to brighten and glow, until, as the years 
rolled on, the true character of the man whose 
mortal remains on this evenlful night were brought 
to receive their tardy due would shine before men 
as one unitiue in kinship, in generosity, and in many 
of the attributes of true grandeur.' 



IV 

On delivering the key of the ebony sarcophagus to 
the Conrte de Chabot, the king's conunissioner, 
Captain Alexander declared to him, in the name of 
the governor, that this coffin, conlaining the morlal 
remains of the Emperor Nai)oleon, was considered 
as at the disposal of the French government froni 
that day, and from the moment at which it shouKl 
arrive at the place of embaikalion, towar(^l which it 
was about to be sent under the orders of General 
Middlemore. The king's conunissioner rej)lied I hat 
he was charged by his governmenl, and in its name, 
to accept the coffin from the hands of the British au- 

^ Lord Rosebery, The Last Phase. Aiilmr liCvy, NapoUvu Intime, 
CEuvres de Frederic Maanon siir Napoleon. 

mo 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

thorities, and that he and the other persons com- 
posing tlic French Mission were ready to follow it 
to Jamestown, where the Prince de Joinville, superior 
commandant of the expedition, would he ready to 
receive it and conduct it on hoard his frigate. 

The inspection of the colKn had been conducted 
with becoming ceremonies. There were several 
English officers, the French generals who had accom- 
panied the jjrince, and the Prince de Joinville as- 
sembled about the four coffins in which all that was 
mortal of Napoleon had l>een rendered to the dust 
to which we must all return. It seemed, however, 
as though the earth itself liad cognizance of the glory 
confided to it. For on o])ening the four coffins the 
body had been found to be in a wonderful state of 
preservation. 

"Tlie body seemed covered with a slight moss: 
one might have said we saw it through a diapha- 
nous cloud. It was in very truth his head; a i)illow 
showed it uplifted; his large brow, his eyes, whose 
pupils could be divined beneath the lids that were 
still framed by some eyelashes; his cheeks were 
swollen, only the nose had suffered; his half-oi)en 
lips disclosed three teeth startlingly white; on the 
chin the outline of the beard could be distinctly 
traced; his two hands appeared to belong to some 
one still breathing, so vivid was their flesh color- 
ing." ' 

The man who most hated Napoleon — Chateau- 
briand — has given us perhaps the most vivid i)or- 

' VAhbv Coqucrcnu, qiK^lod by C'lirilcjiuljri.ind. 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

traiturcs of Napoleon's two faces, the living and the 
dead, at St. Helena. 

In describing the inii)ression produced on certain 
travelers who, during the Emperor's captivity, had 
seen and talked with him, Ihe famous French writer 
(Chriteaubriand) thus describes him: "His head 
resembled a marble bust whose whiteness had been 
slightly yellowed by time. There were neither lines 
in liis foreliead nor hollows in his cheeks; his soul 
seemed serene. This apparent calm convincetl one 
that the flame of his genius liad died out." But 
when he smiled the whole face was illuminaled; "the 
more serious the face the more beautiful is the 
smile." 

The description given of Napoleon's last moments 
is among ihe most eh)quent of tliis aulhor's i)ages: 

"Toward the end of February, 1821, he felt him- 
self obliged to take to his bed, from which he never 
arose. *Am I fallen low enough?' he murmured. 
*I, who moved the world, cannot lift my eyelid.' 

"The 3d of May Nai)oleon had himself ad- 
ministered extreme unction and received the sacra- 
ment. The silence of the room was broken by the 
death cough mingled with the rhythm of the clock's 
pendulum; the shadow, ])efore coming to rest on the 
sun-dial, made a few turns; the planel that moved 
upon ils face was slow to extinguish itself. On Ihe 
4th C'romwelFs (Nai)oleon's) agony rose to tem- 
pestuous heights; almost all the trees of Longwood 
were uprooted. At last, on the 5th, at six minutes 
to (>](^ven o'clock at night, Bonapjirle rendered to 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

God the most powerful breath of life tliat has ever 
animated liuman chxy." 



The last words Napoleon was heard to utter 
disli nelly were: 

" Tele d'Armeer 

As a general, in Jils favorite green coat, white 
vest, and knee-breeclies of while cashmere, while 
silk stockings, and his Grand Cordon de la Legion, his 
body was laid out. The change of his face, after 
(lealh, was remarkable. He had grown stout in 
the face during the last months of his life. The 
transfiguring process of death having begun its 
marvelous embellishment, Marchand, his adoring 
valet, said, "In this state the Emperor had his 
First Consul's face: his mouth, slightly contracted, 
gave to his countenance an expression of satisfaction, 
and he did not look over thirty." 

His death-mask, taken by Doctor Burton **at the 
peril of his life,"^sliows much of the rare delicacy 
and finish of the exquisite features, and also this 
extraordinary recapture of his earlier manhood's 
youth. This death-mask, taken after this first 
fleeting appearance of the former beauty of his face 
and of its expression, Marchand says of it, **It is the 
face of the moment, but not that one of six hours 
after death, which was that of the consul's." 

In the chateau of La Malmaison, in a certain 
alcove you may look upon the very bed on which the 

^ Frederic Massun, NapoUon d Saintc-IIelenc, 1815-25. 

303 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Emperor was laid out. Above the empty bed, 
pathetic in its simplicity, in its Spartan denudation, 
one would say, of all comfort — above there hangs a 
picture/ The canvas represents Napoleon lying in 
his simple state, in his green coat, with his general's 
hat, his white silk hose, his white vest, and his knee- 
breeches. Across the coat rests the Grand Cordon 
of the Legion of Honor. 



VI 

*'I desire that my ashes should repose in France," 
the Emperor had said to Arnott, the one English 
doctor whom he tolerated, because he "loved brave 
men of any country" and because he could talk to 
liim of Egypt. Napoleon, who faced death in his 
narrow bed, in his airless Longwood prison, with that 
fortitude and indifference he had shown in his battles, 
had forestalled what he felt would be the last su- 
preme English cruelty, "the captivity inflicted on 
his corpse." " 

To his dear General Bertrand he had said, "Bcr- 
trand, if, after my death, my body remains in the 
hands of my ca])tors, you will see that it is interred 
here." The si)ot designated was in a valley where 
from a plain one could catch a glimpse of the sea. 
Beneath three willows there ran a little brook, whose 

' Tliis bed of Napoleon, transferred from Lonp^\ood, and the pieture» 
are the gift to the Mahnaison Museum of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Tuck, 
owners of the Chateau de Vert Mont, opposite the chateau nnd park of 
La Malniaison. 

2 PV(3dcric Masson, Napoleon a Sdiiitc-II^lau; 1815-25, p. 488. 

804 



LAST .lOlJIlNICY HP 'I'm-: SIIINK 

cool, sweet: wnlcr N;ii)()l<'<)ii li;ul loiiiid lo liis (jislc. 
Tliercjirivr Cliinumcii wore seiiL daily lor this water 
for the Emperor's use. 

In anotlier interview his expressed will liad l)een 
to have liis remains taken for l)urial to tlu; "hanks of 
the Seine"; or to llie "ishind near Jiyons" at the 
confluence of tlie Rhone and llie Saone; or *'to tlic 
callie<h'al at Ajaeeio, Corsica." As the En^lisli 
governor, even after tlie (h'atli of Na])oleon, imposed 
his will on that of his prisoner already entered into 
eartlily innnortality, it was neither under the Gothic 
nave of tlu^ ('orsicjin calhedral nor on llic; banks of 
the Seine nor on the island near Lyons that the 
Emperor's body was to rest. J^^nglish courtesy 
conce(le<l })urial only in the valley of the Geranium, 
near the Eounlain of 'J ochet.' 

The very name to be engraved on the tomb became 
a matter of bitter dispute. The Emperor's followers 
insisted ihat (lie name to be inscribed sliouM be ihe 
one he had rendered inunortal— Na}>oleon. Hudson 
Lowe, the Emperor's most determined, infl(;xiblc 
persecutor, asserted it must be ]5onapart(N Name- 
less, therefore, since no agreenH'nt was reached, 
with n<'illier mark nor dale, the slab of iiuubh; had 
fronted llie sky. The mortal body of llie greatest 
nn'nd and soul in lOurope hiy at rest, beneath the 
shade of ihrvv. willows, with a trickling brook and 
the soughing of a tropical breeze to sing perpetual 
threnodies. 



' Miijor Emmolt ciills llw site of Nnpolcori's furtive "Slunc's Viillcy, 
iinir IIuI.m' |{iiLc." 

UUfi 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

vn 

The inspection of the remains having been pro- 
nounced satisfactory, the Prince de Joinville de- 
manded permission to have the coffin transferred at 
once to his ship. 

At ten o'clock, on the very morning of the termina- 
tion of the labors of replacing the remains in the 
coffin destined to proceed to France, the Abbe 
Vignali, who had administered the Emperor, said 
mass at Long wood. The French IVIission alone was 
present. 

At eleven o'clock the English arrived. Twelve 
grenadiers carried the coffin to the allee of the garden. 
There the hearse sent from France was placed, 
awaiting the remains. 

The mantle worn at Marengo was placed on this 
hearse, on which General Bertrand laid a sword. 

"A car drawn by four horses, decked with funeral 
emblems, had been prepared before the arrival of 
the expedition to receive the coffin, as well as a pall, 
and all the other suitable trappings of mourning. 
When the sarcophagus was placed on the car the 
whole was covered with a magnificent imperial 
mantle brought from Paris, the four corners of which 
were borne by Generals Bertrand and Gourgaud, 
Baron Las Cases, and M. Marchand. At half past 
three o'clock the funeral car began to move, preceded 
by a chorister bearing the cross, and by the Abbe 
Coquereau. M. de Chabot acted as chief mourner. 

"All the authorities of the island, all the principal 

806 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

inhabitants, and the whole of the garrison, followed 
in procession from the tomb to the quay. But with 
the exception of the artillerymen necessary to lead 
the horses, and occasionally to support the ear when 
descending some steep parts of the way, the places 
nearest the coffin were reserved for the French 
Mission. 

"General Middlemore, although in a weak state of 
health, persisted in following the whole way on foot, 
together with General Churchill, chief of the staff in 
India, who had arrived only two days before from 
Bombay. The immense weight of the coffins and 
the unevenness of the road rendered the utmost 
carefulness necessary throughout the whole distance. 
Colonel Trelawney commanded in person the small 
detachment of artillerymen who conducted the ear, 
and, thanlcs to his great care, not the slightest acci- 
dent took place. From the moment of departure to 
the arrival at the quay the cannon of the forts and 
the Belle Poule fired minute-guns. After an hour's 
march the rain ceased for the first time since the 
commencement of the operations; and on arriving 
in sight of the town we found a brilliant sky and 
beautiful weather." 

The description of this moving and picturesque 
scene is far more touching and more human in its 
sentiment than the above: 

*'When the coffin began its slow descent down 
from the heights of the mountain, to the sound of the 
cannon, escorted by the English infantry, arms re- 
versed, the Dead March of ' Saul ' played to the dull 

307 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

roar of tlie drums, an indescribable emotion took 
possession of the crowd." ^ 



Nature, like the hard hearts of his cruel jailers, 
seemed on this great day to be in relenting mood. 
The teasing wind of that obstinate, persistent alizc 
had stopped its hot and nerve-racking breath; an 
air still and pulseless made one sensible of an en- 
veloping atmosphere of reverential calm. And, as 
thougli to typify the glory of a man so great that 
historians seem born expressly to record his genius, 
the gorgeous colors of a surpassingly beautiful sini- 
set beflagged the scene, as though to outrival the su- 
perb Tricolor that floated at the poop of the shallop. 

The moving scene was lighted by these resplendent 
colors; the vivid gold of the dying sun softened the 
tones of the grim rocks, below^ whose frowning 
fortresses along the beach were ranged the English 
authorities and the English troops. 

Once the body was in possession of the prince, the 
French commander, there was heard the roar of the 
salute from La Belle Poule''s cannon, and the boat 
made its way across the cobalt seas. Dozens of 
oars, striking the water in perfect precision, made a 
liquid, rhythmic music. 

Napoleon's generals were grouped about the 
central figure of the handsome young prince. The 
Tricolor caught the dying sun-rays of the resplendent 



^ Prince do Joinville, Viaix Souvenirs. 

308 



LAST JOTinNKY UP TTIK SKINK 

suiisol, vvliosc c'frul^'cncc luiiiiioiilzcd llic pure wliilcs 
of llie (Tcws, IIm' ;^<)I(I - hruidcd uiiiloniis of llic 
officers, and '*llie hljick rocks," now Illuiiiiiu^d willi 
color, under llic ^'oldcn ^low. 



VIII 

Once cmhurked on ils long voyage across dislanl 
seas to France, in that journey of fifly-onc days, did 
that still body in its casket say notln'ng to the lieart 
and mind of ihe on(; traitor aboard? Did its elo- 
<|uent calm l)ring no sling of remorseful regret to 
Gourgaud?' Did that unfaithful friend and general 
never repent him of his false statements, of liis 
assuring English Mimsters on liis return to Englan<l 
in May, 1818, that Napoleon's illness was a "farec," 
that stricter measures should Ix; taken to prevent his 
escape, that *'Nai)oleon only exasi)erates his keepers 



'All lliosc fuinili.'ir willi Lord KosclH'ry'.s Ntiitolciyti: The hiixt Phase, 
uikI willi (illiiT IOii^,'li,sli luitliotitics wlio liiiv<' wriUt-n on lliis nuI)- 
jcct of (i<)iir(4.iii<r.s Irciiclu'iy, know liiiil l')ti^(li.sli lii.s(,ori;iii,s l,ak(; a very 
(liir<Tciil, view «tf (iciicrul (joiirf^aiKJ'.s licmlalions. lOillicr llicy anr 
frcalcd as iianiilr.s.s — "W<' nrc coiiviiH-cd lliiil he rcvcidcd nolliin/^' of 
(he .sli>{lil(;.sl iiiijJorLuiwf cillHT now or afUrward in J^ondon," a.s Lord 
J{,o,sclxry a.sscrl.s -or llicy arc taken an Sir Waller Si'oll. allcf^cs tlic^y 
Nhoiild !)(' accepted, as liie ,slat<'inenlH of one"\vlio acted a donMc j)aj-t." 
. . . |of| "one who liad lM'<'n a .sort, of aj,'ent for llie Hritisli f^overnnient." 

I><jrd lloselwry lakes an entirely did'creni, view of (Jowrj-^and's depart.nro 
from Si. Helena and of liis actions on reacliin;.^ I'ln^^land. Ili.s <'ontcnlion 
i.s llial, "(ionrj^anrrs deparlnre is merely a llnssian nn'ssion . . ." Al.so 
llial (ioiirj^and's dcparlun! was utilized hy the lOmperor as a means "of 
comnnniieatin^; with lOiirope Ihronf^h an oflicer who could thoroughly 
exphiin the silnalion and policy of l/onjjjwood." 

MasHon's |>oint, of view a|>|)ear.s l,o \h: the umw. plausiltle unalyNls of 
a eharacler un umhiguous as i.s that of (iourgaii<J. 
21 :J0!) 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

by his irritable demands the better to hide his true 
designs"? 

Does the heart of a traitor really beal to the same 
measure as that of an honest man? 

The Freneh ship was carrying on its way at least 
one true, broken-hearted friend. Marchand, the Em- 
peror's devoted body-servant — nurse, friend, con- 
fidant, the valet who saw in his master the greatest 
of heroes and the unconquerable conqueror — IMar- 
chand could finger over, as piously as a devout be- 
liever his chaplet, the brilliants of the necklace his 
beloved master luid given him. 

As he lay on his dying bed. Napoleon had ordered 
Marchand to bring him the jewel, a string of superb 
diamonds, the one renuiining jewel he ])ossessed. 

"That good Ilortense," lie said, "gave it to mc 
at La Malmaison, thinking I might have need of it. 
I believe it to be worth two hundred thousand francs. 
Hide it about thy person. I give it thee. I ignore 
in what a state my afi'airs nuiy be in Europe. It is 
the only thing of value of which I can dispose. ..." 

Wliat need of possessions to be willed away for 
him who had held in his hand the scepter of a 
conquered world? . . . 

What a world of memories must have been evoked 
at the mere mention of the word "La Malnuxison " ! 
From Napoleon's victorious return from Egypt, 
from Italy, when as general, then Consul, and later 
when he mounted to the steps of the throne, on to 
the tragic ending of that marvelous career of power, 
of a splendor all but unparalleled — to what a path 

310 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

of glory Ill's "star" had led him, until, darkened, in 
eclipse, he must slimil)le along the calvary of his 
punishment, no star in sight; and in every stnge of 
these his great, as in his desj)airing, fortunes had 
La Mahnaison seen his steps wander about its park 
and galleries. 

A few days before starting for St. Helena Na- 
poleon had sought refuge at the chateau. The 
24lh of June, at dinner. Napoleon asked of Ilortense, 
who alone among all the members of his numerous 
family — now pseudo-kings and queens in exile — had 
remained at La Mahnaison: 

"I wish to relire to La Mahnaison. It is yours. 
Will you give me hospitality?" 

Already a semi-j)risoner, under the guard of 
General Becker, Napoleon took once more, and for 
the last time, the road he had trod as hero, as con- 
queror, to the house where he had known all the best 
and happiest days of his life, and where even at the 
pinnacle of power and fame "he was of an immense 
simplicity." 

It was from La Mahnaison he took his journey 
across Fraiu'e to Ilambouillet, to Tours, to Poitiers, 
to Sl.-Mnixeiit, to Niort, and to Rochefort. 

That niislaken Jiioment of confidence when the 
Emperor, with a naivete that seems the more 
amazing when one remembers his own former 
ambitious designs on England, felt such "confidence" 
in English eourtes}' an<l in her sense of juslice I hat, 
as he uncovered, on stepjnng on board the Bellcwphony 
he could exclaim, "I come to place myself under 

311 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFmLDS 

the protection of your prince and of your laws" — 
that belief in an implacable enemy's generosity or of 
the allies' magnanimity was the fatal impulse that 
landed Napoleon at St. Helena. 

He whose most soul-stirring military ambition 
had been the conquest of England to say, after the 
first formalities had been interchanged on board the 
Bellerophon: "And now I must inform myself con- 
cerning English customs. ... I must learn to con- 
form to them, since I shall probably pass the re- 
mainder of my life in England." Wliat an amazing 
state of mind ! 

Verily, the occasional lapses in a right gaging of 
critical situations, at critical moments, comforts less 
brilliant intellects with the pleasing reflection that 
genius, at times, can prove itself as dull as any 
mediocre intelligence. 

rx 

On this return of all that was mortal of Napoleon 
to France the Prince de Joinville, on La Belle Poulc's 
reaching Cherbourg, believed his own part in the 
mission of this transportation of the remains to be 
at an end. 

But sealed orders awaited him; he was com- 
manded to transfer the remains to a steamboat that 
the whole length of the Seine, from Havre to Paris, 
should witness the re-entry of the Conqueror into 
his France. 

This program was not in the least to the taste of 

312 




NAPOLEOX S ADIEU TO FRANCE 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

tlio youlliful coniinandor. At St. Helena he notes: 
"Tile whole affair transpired between the P^nglish 
army, on one hand, and our naval forces, on the other, 
with that chivalry and serious aspect which always 
accompanies internalional relations when confided 
to men of the sword. In France, the transportation 
of Napoleon's remains took on quite another charac- 
ter. It was above all else a spectacle." 

At Cherbourg the body was transferred from La 
Belle Poule to a steamer, Nonnandie. 

A thousand guns are said to have saluted the 
arrival of the bier. 

The arrangements on the Normandie were indeed 
spectacular. "A temple with twelve pillars and a 
dome to cover it from the wet and moisture was sur- 
rounded with velvet hangings and silver fringe. 
At the head was a gold cross, at the foot a gold 
lamp; other lamps were kept constantly burning 
williin, and vases of burning incense were hung 
around an altar hung with velvet and silver and 
at the mizzen-mast of the vessel, and four silver 
eagles at each corner of the altar." ^ 

Spectacular as may have been the cortege to the 
eyes and taste of a highly bred, fastidious prince, 
Nai)oleon, by his own birth not so very far removed 
from the people, was to receive along the banks of the 
Seine, where he had hoped to lie, those rapturous 
acclamalions that had greeted his living ears on how 
many a battlefield. 

And on what a scene the cold November sun shed 

* Tbackcruy, Second Funeral of Napoleon. 



VV THE SEINE TO TTTE BATTT.EFIELDS 

its pallid raj's ! Shores lined with peasants in holiday 
attire; eivil authorities searved with tlieir tricolor 
sashes; priests in gorgeous vestments chanting 
benedictions; soldiers wearing the fading glories of 
their war-worn uniforms; and from II;ivre to the 
Parisian suburb of Courbevoie there rang the nevc^r- 
ending chorus t)f a greal people's shout oi welcome 
to all that was mortal of the innnortal genius who 
had made France the rival of Rome. 

l^j) past the villages, the farmhouses, and the 
forests of the Seine, the funeral barge with its short 
casket, covered with an in)i)erial-purple velvet i)all, 
escorted by the crew that had safely' brought the 
body on its long overseas journey, on and on the 
silent coribgc moved among the still waters. 

The banks of the Seine, after all, as Napoleon had 
wished, had witTiessed his apotheosis. 

Of all those thousands who crowiled the banks of 
the Seine there were none who should have watched 
for the conu'ng of their real liberator with more 
lasting gratitude than the })easants. Not a fanner, 
not a peasant owner of land along those fertile or- 
chards and rich meadowlands of Ilonfleur, or Cau- 
deb(>c, or Duclair but was the riclu>r because the 
mail whose j)rocessional cortege was to most of them 
})ut a spectacular ovation had lived, had liberated 
France from the tyranny of the Terror, had organ- 
ized out of chaos a magnificent working goveriinunt, 
had struck from the hand ol' the nobles (he last 
of their feudal rights — among otluuvs the law of 

])riiiM»g('iiilure. 

314 



LAST JOURNEY III' IIIK SIIINK 

In f?ivi'ng to the posu ant the riglit to own property 
Niipoleoii Ii.'kI clvill/ed llie ))eoj)le. flow iiiiuiy of 
lliose rii<l(l>'-r;i('e(l I'jinners, In llieir lioliduy blonse.s, 
sljindin;.'; vvilli eyes ^Ined lo I lie e<)nn'n<,' ".sliovv," 
realized nil lliey owed lo llils"ni;in iA I lie people, " 
us Napoleon i)roiidly e;illed liiinseli', tliou/^li, in 
reality, lie liad all of llie arisloeral's lejiiiin^s. 
Kven in onr day it is the hislorieal fashion to rei.all 
Napoleon's eriines of anihition, his politieal niisLakes, 
his arrogance, ami liis vi(;es. T\\v. benefil.s Ik; con- 
ferred on FraiKH', above all, on the i)eople, are not 
even now ai)i)rcciaLed; thos(^ wlio inherit tJKJse ro 
suits of liis n'ign delight still to dwell on llie irre/{ii- 
lurities of his i)rivate life and the fanlLs of his jxililieal 
career. 

Anjong all those who stood on llie Seine shores, 
those who most truly mournecJ the dead hero, were 
those who hiid fought under him, those wlio had 
suffered thirst ami hunger in long marches, those 
who had survived tlu; frozen liorrors of the Russian 
steppes. 

(Jiilteaubriand, though his hate of Napoleon was 
matched only by that of Mmc;. de Stacl, yet gives us 
a picture of what som(r of these; soldiers suffered, from 
otlier than physical causes, as they stood on guard, 
wlien I^>uis XVIII entered Paris on M;iy ,">, IH14: 

"Tt vv;is a regiment of the Old (iujini on foot who 
formed a wmII from the Pont Neuf to Noire Djutie. . . . 
I do not think human faces have ever reflected an ex- 
pression at once so menacing and so terrible. Tliese 
grenadiers, covere<J with w«)imds, conquerors of 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLI^FIELDS 

Europe, were forced to salute an old king, invalided 
by reason of years, not from wars — sj)ied upon as 
they were b^^ Russians, Auslrians, and Prussians in 
their own Napoleon's invadc>d cai)ilal. Some of 
them, their foreheads workin*^", made their large 
furry cap cover their eyes, that they might not see; 
others curved the corners of their mouths in the 
scorn of their anger; others, through their mus- 
taches, showed their teeth like tigers. When they 
presented arms it was with a movement of fury, 
and the noise of these rattling arms nuide one 
tremble." 

These grenadiers, on this memorable November 
day of the i)assage up the Seine, some of them, 
could have l)een seen trembling from other causes 
than anger. Out from thatched Normandy farm- 
houses tottering veterans from Ilonflem- fields, 
from Caudebec garden-])aleh(\s, maile their way to 
the very edges of the Seijie banks. St)me held their 
grandsons by the hand, little children brought up on 
the strong wine of Napoleonic victories, cradled on 
the fluctuating sway of battles, sung to sleep to 
songs of victory. With hearts beating to suffoca- 
tion, the breath as hot on lip as though to rush a 
charge, these soldiers of Napoleon watched the com- 
ing of his bier as a lover might that of his dead 
mistress. 

The straining eyes at last caught sight of the 
coritge. 

As on and on the corthge moved among the still 
waters, the cries and shouts that rang up from the 



LAST JOURNEY UP THE SEINE 

shores wore like uiilo ;i continuous son^( of praise 
and rapture, from Havre to Courbevoic. Tlierc 
\ver<' some amoii^' Uiose lliousands wlio were niut(s 
'I'here were llie scarred veterans <lown whose fur- 
rowed cheeks the tears were streaming. 

Not one of tliose wlio stood paying' tlieir tribute, 
by their noisy shouts or by tlie silent elo(juence of 
tiieir tears, but must luive felt oppressed with a 
sense of something witliin, stirring their souls, that 
was at once imi)ressive and inlangibh'; for that 
which was floating upon the Seine waters was all 
that was left of a power that luid been grandiose and 
inconij)lele, an apparition almost fantastic in ils 
comet-like ai)pearance and disai)[)earance, a genius 
(hat was touched wilh the divine asceudiug flame, 
but whose soul was racked by an overmastering 
aml>ilion. NapoleoJi embodied in liin)si;lf, as it 
were, the elements which make the dual mystery — 
the inequalities of all human life. 



CHAPTER XXI 



TO THE DOCKS OF ROUEN 



^T^HE Doric column, with its dulled bronze rings, 
-*- its blurred bas-reliefs, and the eagle crowning 
the pillar of stone, had vanished. The moving 
memories evoked by the commemorative column — 
erected August 15, 1844 — had swept before the men- 
tal vision such thoughts and reflections — such a 
review of France's past grandeur, of all the procession 
of historic events since that decorative funeral barge 
passed up the very river-path we were following — 
that eyes and sense were closed to all nearer ob- 
jective impressions. 

Slowly, gradually, the ever-continuing grandeur of 
the scene of which we were a part recaptured the 
wandering mind. The great forests, now lining both 
sides of the river, reasserted their claim to recog- 
nition of their beauty. 

The last cobra-like sweep the Seine had taken, 
from Duclair to La Bouille, turning to compass the 
curve that led on to Le Val de la Haye, had brought 
us between the two magnificent forests of Roumare 
and the forest of Rouvray. So unexpected are these 
superb hills of trees, so vast their extent, that one 

318 



THE DOCKS OF ROUEN 

almost feels them to be a personal possession — one 
more tie between France and America. The sight 
of such great forested hills appeals, perhaps, pecul- 
iarly to us Americans. We have a proprietary sense 
of possessing such unmatched glories as the Adiron- 
dacks, the Green Mountains, the White Mountains, 
the Alleghanies, and the Rocky Mountains. To 
find tracts of land which reveal to the eye forests 
evocative of a primeval state — adorning a river so 
httle known as a tourist pleasure trip — and to en- 
counter such wildness so near Rouen and Paris — 
these are the surprises that touch with peculiar 
appeal an American response to beauty allied to 
unspoiled nature. 

A mass of ruins crowned the hills, just beyond 
the little hamlet of Le Val de la Haye. Should 
curiosity tempt you to take a run from Rouen 
to these imposing and interesting remains of the 
chateau-fort — called Le Chateau de Robert le 
Diable — for your pains you would have the double 
reward of attempting to rebuild the superb 
eleventh-century fortress and you would enjoy 
an all-embracing view from the great heights 
of the hill. Undulating mountains, plains, towns, 
and chateaus — the latter surrounded by their vast 
parks, would unroll themselves before you — that 
great carpet of earth's surface on which man has 
written his longings, desires, and ambitions. 

Hamlets and villages, such as Quenneport and 
Biessart, with their village church spires, their bright 
roofs, gardens, and grain-fields now disputed, with the 

319 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

overhanging forests, their rights to live — these human 
habitations made brilHant spots of color. Some of 
the small villas — pavilions, our French friends would 
call them — proved they were those dreams that had 
come true for many a sous-hoarding petit rentier. 
Years of saving, years of unremitting toil, years of 
hardships borne uncomplainingly, each trim little 
house we had passed represented; the great object 
ahead ever kept in view had made the long years 
])ass quickly. To possess just such a bit of land, 
large enough for a vegetable garden, a small flower 
garden, a cozy, comfortable house — these possessions, 
to the smaller bourgeois class, mean the crowning of a 
life of labor. To retire to such a home, to be a 
rentier, however small the income, are the dreams 
that haunt the brain of every intelligent, laborious 
Frenchman. The dot system of marriage is one 
great help; the restriction of the family to one or 
two offspring is another aider and abettor of a 
Frenchman's longing to be independent, to enjoy a 
few years of happy content after life's fever of work 
and anxiety. 

The secret of French thrift, of French industry, of 
the French love for money find their answer in such 
hoi)es and dreams. 

To the peasant as well as to the petit bourgeois — 
here is the gift Napoleon gave to the }]eoi)le. In 
abrogating the law of primogeniture, in forcing all 
property to be equally divided between heirs, the 
organizing genius of Napoleon prepared the way for 
a France universally jirospc^rous and ambitious. 

320 



THE DOCKS OF ROUEN 

Lamartine, in company with many others, has not 
been just to the great man he attacked. The im- 
mense reconstructive work of Napoleon, in his con- 
sular days, in the earlier years of his imperial career, 
proves him to rank among the greatest of statesmen. 
No other French ruler, save Henri IV, has ever had 
such vision to create a greater France — for the good 
of the people. 

The vine-covered houses had a deeper interest 
now when one remembered all they stood for. The 
bright sun shining on the ripened grain, the great 
I)otato-patches just now showing their delicate 
tasseled flower, the long stretches of cabbages and 
cauliflowers that give to every French landscape 
such jadelike colors, these prosperous lands spelled 
the old, the ever-renascent French vigor of energy 
and industry. 

A dazzling white sail, cutting the blues of sky and 
river, and then more and more sails, steamboats, 
and every few half-miles a huge transport or foreign 
ship announced the beginning of the end of our 
voyage. 

Dieppedalle and Quevilly were passed, the former 
a charming little town full of color and movement. 
The ships unloading along the river-banks sent long, 
polychrome shadows across the blues of the Seine. 
There were violets, reds, and deep purples melting 
into the liquid surface. Clouds rising from behind 
the hills would find their soft contours delicately re- 
flected in the river edges. The later afternoon glow 

321 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

was tinting the whole landscape with an ineffably 
vaporous, luminous quality. The hills were long 
blue ridges of color; the river was a mirror of con- 
stantly changing reflections — like the mind of a 
poet, reflecting only beautiful thoughts. 

Tall chimneys pouring dense columns of smoke to 
darken the sky, succeeded to the spires of parish 
churches. The scene had changed from one of 
rustic and natural beauty to one teeming with 
activity. 

We were cruising among the close little islands that 
precede Rouen's great docks. Noise of thumping, 
grinding machinery; noise of heavy hammering; 
noise of men loading and unloading cargoes; noise 
of puffing steam-engines — the river now choked with 
ships, sailing-ships, masts splashing the blues of the 
sky like huge sheets spread out — and everywhere 
movement, life, activity, and noise — we had indeed 
returned to our world. 



II 

In approaching Croisset, a suburb of Rouen, I was 
curious to see how much of the great industrial and 
commercial spirit of the age had encroached on 
Gustave Flaubert's old home. Only a few years ago 
"the shrine," as the writer's admirers called his 
house and the charming little Louis XV pavilion 
where he worked, were as he had last seen them. 
One could watch, as had he and his beloved mother 
and niece, from the old house that was at once "gay 

322 



THE DOCKS OF ROUEN 

and agreeable," the Seine that seemed framed in a 
superb tulip-tree, and the charming view across the 
lawns, with their nodding flowers and 'parterres. 

The reverent care with which all the Flaubert 
souvenirs had been placed and catalogued — the 
"souvenirs," the manuscripts, the table, the very 
chair he had used in "those tormenting hours" when 
Flaubert's toil over his books was, according to his 
own confessions, rather an agony than a delight — 
all these precious reminders of this master of style 
were as sacredly preserved as a devout Catholic 
enshrines the relics of a saint. One could walk along 
the terrace, under the lindens — the terrace that ran 
just above the old house — and follow in imagination 
that long coil of seven years' toil spun out here that 
produced the great French masterpiece, Madame 
Bovary. 

The long white house was old, as the habitation 
of a recluse should be. Other monks, dedicated to 
another worship, had lived here, centuries ago. The 
monks from the Abbaye of St.-Ouen came here for 
their summer rest and for healthful recreation. For 
them also there must be the calm of country life and 
prolonged hours of silence and reverie. 

Flaubert believed it was in this very conventual 
country house I'Abbe Prevost had written his 
immortal Manon Lescaut, for it was known the 
abbaye had had as its guest, for several months, the 
celebrated author. 

Flaubert did not work in this interesting old 
house. The small Louis XV pavilion built directly 

323 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

over the river shores was his sanchuiry. There his 
sechision was as carefully guarded, by his tender 
and watchful mother, as though she were the guard- 
ian angel of a demigod. 

"It is time to return to La Buvari/,^' he would 
say, and half the night would be speut in tortnre 
torments to find the right word, in chiseling a phrase 
to greater perfection. 

I'lauberl's work has filled hundreds of the pages of 
his critics. Jules Lemattre applied the revealing 
searchlight of his ])eiietrative, analytic genius to 
what he called the psychology of Flaubert's "case"; 
for there was indeed something abnormal in the 
methods pnrsued by Flaubert. 

Flaubert, in his search for the rigid wor<l, brought 
to the task the same patience and lij-eless interest 
of those given over to scientific research. Lemaitre, 
in his genial, human way of calling things by their 
right names, wondered if Flaubert, ]K)or and ob- 
scure, could have given so much valuable lime to the 
pursuit of perfection? Also whether it was quite 
honest for a writer to count all the hours he spent 
lying on his lounge, smoking a cigarette, lolling 
out of a window "as hours spent in search of a 
word".'^ 

"I find it difhcull to com])rchend how one could 
devote eight days and eight nights to the writing of 
fifty or sixty lines. 

"This degree of difficulty in writing appears to mc 
unnatural. In fad, I have doubts. Above all, I 
doubt when I reflect with what ease Flaubert wrote 

324 



THE DOCKS OF ROUEN 

to his friends letters of twenty pages, in a morning, 
loiters lluiL prove really a very elaborate style. 

"In I mill, lie was an idler, perhaps very lazy in 
spile of all one says. To stroll about his vast library, 
going from one book to another, to lounge on his 
tlivan, smoking innumerable little clay pipes, while 
thinking vaguely about his page, first begun, in 
ruminating over phrases — such was his conception, 
l)r()])ably, of 'working like a nigger.'"^ 

The little pavilion finally came into sight. What 
a pathetic picture of desolation it presented! The 
huge factory had encroached on "the gay and 
agreeable" old house. It seemed to have been 
engulfed in the modern monstrosity. Where were 
the pretty lawns, the flower-beds, and the trees of 
the long terrace? The tulipicr supcrbcy the house, 
the gardens were lost forever. 

Flaul^ert's temple remains. The famous terrace 
above the little house, where the writer and liis 
friends met, where he walked daily, where later, 
after his death, his friends, received l)y Louis Bouil- 
het, his alter ego — would meet annually to com- 
memorate the anniversary of his birth — the some- 
what sickly trees of the terrace could scarcely be 
seen. 

This desiccation of a literary shrine by the rage of 
commercialism seems significant. We are living in 
a world perpetually at war: the battle between 
idealism and materialism is waged at our very 
doors. What is to remain? Are we come to the 

'Jules Li'iiiatlro, Ia;i Coiilrmiioniins Iliiitictiic Scric, Men Souvenirs. 
'22 ^*5 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

days when one must onior a convent to be siu'e of 
securing quiet, calm — ^and where also one entombs 
one's fame? INIodern writers, I take it, have also 
been bitten by the rabies of commercialism. What 
writer now writes for the sole glory of art? What 
lover of to-da.y would write to his beloxed, as 
Flaubert did to Louise Colet: 

^'Va — aime flutot Vart que moi; cette ajfeciion-ld 
ne te manquera j)as. . . . Adore ridole, elle seule est 
vraie parce quelle scvlc est ctcrnelle." 

Read any life of Flaubert and you will be the 
better able to appreciate the changes wliich the war 
has brought to the Seine shores. 

Rouen itself in war-time discovered its importance 
as the second northern French port. There were 
times indeed when Havre feared her claims to being 
the first of the great northern ports might be denied. 
Rouen's docks were congested for long miles out 
into the Seine; war- vessels of every type and style 
were ranged in deep rows along her shores. To 
pass between them, as I had the privilege accorded 
me, by the Havre connnandant in September, 11)18, 
was like passing in review of a world's fleet. The 
sight was one never to be forgotten. It was a 
stupendous proof of the victory w^on by England's 
supremacy of the sea. 

As our boat now pushed on and on in this year of 
victory the river shores still showed what the Allied 
nations had been taught of the uses of the Seine as 
a great highway and of the value of Rouen as a port. 
Hundreds of great ships disputed anchorage with 

326 



THE DOCKS OF ROUEN 

canal-boats, sailing-craft, steam-tugs, and torpedo- 
boats. 

The Seine has come indeed into her own. The 
Thames alone is her European rival from the point 
of view of maritime activity. 

There were tootings, signaling, whistles were 
blown, great hawsers were thrown, and the Havre 
boat had come to its Rouen docks. 

Our inland voyage was over. 

The vision of the beauty revealed, of France's 
prosperity and of her grandeur, were but the pro- 
phetic vision of all she would achieve in the centuries 
to come. 



CHAPTER XXII 



ROUEN — SEEN IN A DAY 



THE grinding of cranes, the smell of tar, the aro- 
niatic odors of grain, of dried fish, of oils in 
barrels, the slouching figures of longshoremen, of 
Chinese coolies handling boxes, and of negroes 
shoveling coal from barges to crates — here were the 
proofs that we had indeed returned to the great 
world. 

Rouen's docks proclaimed her place among tlie 
more imj)ortant jwrts of the world. Her forces of 
after-the-war activities, as we have seen, reach out 
miles beyond her actual quays. This long stretch 
of a river-packed shore with its massed shi])ping 
might be New York's crowded docks, or those of the 
Thames or the Clyde. All great ports have a family 
likeness. Commerce presents the same hard-lined 
face the world over. 

Rouen is now transformed. She is the modern 
city; the tram-cars rattling along the broad boule- 
vard yonder, the rushing cars, the network of tele- 
graph poles, tell you she is the sister city of all the 
live cities of our teeming world. 





i ''hi 








ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

And yet — and yet — as one approaches the much- 
loved, iniich-laiided city tliere is seen from the river 
one sign, rising skyward, that proclaims Rouen holds 
fast to the jewels in her antique crown of beauty. 

Like a giant arrow aimed to touch the skies, the 
great cathedral lantern-spire rivals the uprising hills. 
The towering mass of the cathedral itself o'ertops 
the gray mass of the city roofs and closely packed 
houses, as its grandeur and beauty now stand almost 
unrivaled since Rheims must take its widowed 
I)Iace among the great ruins of antiquity. 

It was this first, overpowering spectacle of Rouen's 
cathedral, set like a monster jewel below the uprising 
hills, hills that seemed earth's protective guardian- 
ship of this Rouennais treasure, that fixed and en- 
tranced the seeing eye and sense. 

As we hurried along the crowded, bustling streets, 
the shock of the city's ultra-modernity would have 
had its benumbing, dampering effect did we not 
know Rouen's great arcliitectural glories are re- 
ligiously preserved; that through the glaring mon- 
strosities of electrical signs, music-hall advertise- 
ments, shops showing every variety of merchandise, 
and open-air restaurants with the blare of their 
gramophone, negro choruses, and jazz music filling 
the streets, one could still rebuild the old, superb 
medieval and Renaissance Rouen. For there are 
still dark and tortuous streets; there arc still 
image-sculptured houses, with their gable roofs and 
quaint dormer windows; there are still slimy alleys, 
beyond whose tottering, grimy-faced houses you may 

329 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

catch the lace-worked apse of a noble Gothic church; 
and of churches, of every age since churches were 
built in this Norman capital, there are enough to 
delight the lovers of architecture for days and days. 

For us, alas! there was to be but a single day in 
which to review the glories of this city of churches and 
of Joan of Arc. 

We were due at Amiens, to begin the tour of the 
more northern devastated regions on the morrow. 

Was it loss or gain — this enforced, hurried survey 
of Rouen's treasures and beauties? With quickened 
vision comes keener-edged impressions. Never be- 
fore, in more leisurely wanderings, had the archi- 
tectural and historical records of Rouen's long life as 
a city produced as lasting, as perdurable an effect. 

In this rapid survey, a charm indefinable, but one 
replete with a peculiar suggestive quality, seemed to 
haunt every step of our pilgrimage. We were in 
pursuit of the city Charles VII saw when he made 
his triumphal entry, in great state and magnificence, 
after Talbot's unsuccessful attempts to hold the 
great Norman capital Henry V of England had 
conquered. 

The city Charles VII would have seen was the 
city of the Middle Ages. Its narrow, tortuous streets 
were lined with wooden houses whose sculptured 
facades and irregular outlines made those rich con- 
trasts in tones and line we moderns, in making a cult 
of the picturesque, seek far and wide. 

The smells and odors of that medieval city could 
be distinguished a full league away — and this far- 

330 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

reaching breath was still to be breathed as late as 
the beginning of the eighteenth century. Filth and 
undrained streets in this walled town brought about 
such a succession of death-dealing diseases, of 
plagues, and of pests as only a tough, Norman- 
peopled city could survive.^ 

Tapestries, brocades. Oriental carpets, standards 
and flags, magnificent costumes and jewels, and the 
sonorous brasses of trumpets and silver-tongued 
flutes were the decorative and martial elements 
which could turn a filthy medieval city into a ban- 
quet for the eyes — one which, for all our modern 
inventions, our drain-pipes, and the pride we take in 
our plumbing, we can never hope to rival. 

The late kings who came to Rouen on their way 
to Havre or to the Normandy coast — Henri II 
among others, with Diane de Poitiers sitting beside 
him — pillion fashion, the two making the tour of the 
city on the occasion of Henri II's memorable visit, 
when Rouen outdid itself to celebrate so great an 
honor as its Idng's honoring of his amie — these 
royal visitors would have seen the city in its Renais- 
sance splendor. The great changes made in the 
last hundred years have been the leveling of the city 
walls, its moats turned into boulevards, its draw- 
bridges, great gateways, and the marvels of its ani- 
mated, sculptured houses torn down. The loss of 
these latter can never be suflSciently mourned, for 
the Rouen of not more than fifty years ago was still 
a city of rare, unique streets, adorned with houses 

^ Vieux Rouen. 

331 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

so exquisitely carved one could wish each one had 
been preserved under glass. 



II 

Whether one passes now under the gilded archway 
of La Grosse Horloge into the busiest of all the 
Rouen streets — its true artery — the great clock 
having given its name to the street; whether one 
pushes one's way through the throng of pedestrians 
who at all hours of the day and night crowd the too 
narrow thoroughfare; or whether one takes the short 
cut through streets running from the rue Jeanne 
d'Arc — one's feet turn, as though magnet-drawn, to 
the great cathedral. 

For us there could be but the brief glancing tribute 
of renewed wonder at those contrasting architectural 
styles in the superb facade which endow it with a 
character unique among great French ecclesiastical 
masterpieces. 

The Romanesque base of the Tower of St.-Romain 
flowering into the ogival upper structure — this tow- 
er being the sole survivor of the original cathedral 
of the thirteenth century (1200) consumed by fire — 
the simplicity and solidity of this uprising tower 
enhance the florescent delicacy of the Tour de 
Beurre. 

For close study of the famous sculptures on the 
porches, the laces of the Gothic balustrades, pin- 
nacles, statues, niches, and flying-buttresses, for an 
inspection of the interesting variety of design in the 

S3% 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

many windows, one must have at one's disposal days, 
even weeks, not hours. 

One view I could not forgo. Passing into the 
rue St.-Romain and turning to the right, one comes 
upon the full majestic mass of the cathedral's great 
apse, the transepts, the upspringing flying-but- 
tresses, the crown of the Tour de Beurre, and the 
flight heavenward of the tapering, the incredibly tall 
lantern. From no other point of view can the 
imposing ensemble of the grandeur of the cathedral 
be thus grasped. Not even Chartres can present so 
wonder-filling a presentment of stones piled on stones, 
curved in lines of harmonious beauty, carved as 
though by magic-endowed fingers, and with that 
aspiring spiral of the great lantern that typifies the 
living faith that built this Gothic masterpiece. 



Ill 

Down the rue St.-Romain, as you walk, you come 
upon one of the famous "views" so often reproduced 
by etchers and painters. 

The street is narrow; there are agreeably over- 
hanging eaves of old houses; there are certain odors 
that prick the fancy to rebuild the older, smelly 
Rouen; and at the end of the short street, in perfect 
perspective, there stands the jewel of the church all 
the world knows as St.-Maclou. The breath quick- 
ens; the Rouen of a far-away, lost century is before 
one. 

That first ecstatic vision pursues one. Whether 

333 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

one stands before the elaborate triple porcli, the eye 
carried on and on, and up and up, from the laces of 
the pediment to the statues, from the statues to the 
faery grace of the cock-crowned stone spire; whether 
one pauses before the door Jean Goujon carved, or, 
on entering the church, whether one eyes the tower 
that becomes a lantern in the interior of the church, 
"a Norman feature," or whether one follows the 
winding curves of the celebrated stairway leading 
to the organ-loft, or whether one tarries before the 
jeweled stained-glass windows — no view of St.^ 
Maclou's architectural or ornamental glories can 
outdo that first view from the narrow St.-Romain 
street. 

What other French town or city can yield as does 
Rouen such Old World groupings of picturesque 
streets, old houses, and Gothic and Renaissance 
architectural achievements? 



rv 

After an hour of craning one's neck to follow the 
older Christian world's effort to carry the symbols of 
its faith to the very portals of the skies, it was with 
a common impulse we turned our feet to the open 
square before St.-Ouen. 

In England the bit of garden at the side of the 
church would be called a cathedral close. 

A true garden, however, we found it. There were 
flaming flower-beds, elm and pine trees, and smooth, 
well-kept lawns. There were also inviting benches 

334 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

where, also as usual, one could not hope to find a 
seat. One may live in France for a lifetime, yet the 
secret of how it comes that so many well-dressed 
loungers and so many girls and middle-aged women 
find time to pass hours sitting on a bench in a square 
or garden, watching the passers-by as though they 
had taken seats at a show — this secret will never be 
revealed. 

As we sat watching, in our turn, the laughing, 
romping groups of children at play in the garden 
paths, a certain statue caught the eye. 

Above its pedestal, the figure, clad in a short tunic, 
had an arresting, authoritative air. Curiosity spurred 
one to learn the motive of the imperious gesture of 
the right arm and forefinger pointing downward 
with an air of possessorship. 

The inscription on the pedestal gave us the secret 
of that autocratic pose. For a true conqueror was 
Rollo — pirate chief of Norman invaders — he whose 
ruse and cunning forced the French King Charles 
VI to give him this rich land of Normandy (Neustria) 
with Rouen as its capital. "This land over which I 
rule — I keep," reads the inscription on the column. 
And keep it and rule it indeed did Rollo and all of 
his imperious descendants. 

Was there ever such a story as that of those 
adventurous Norman s.^* Will there ever be another 
as romantic, as wonderful as the turning of pirates 
into the thriftiest, the most law-abiding of French 
citizens? 

Wlien out from the glacial fjords the vikings set 

335 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFn:Ll)S 

forth on their great adventures to seek their "place 
in the sun"; when they pushed their liigli-prowed 
boats up through the verdant reaches of the Seine; 
when their envious eyes, weary of gray skies, of fog- 
cloaked mountains, of icy climates, feasted on the 
magnificent river, its shores tapestried with fruit- 
trees in blossom, its fertile fields the home of fat 
cattle, its banks lined with snug farms and j:)eopled 
villages; with its churches dedicated to a mighty, 
unknown God; with convents as big as towns, gorged 
with riches — what wonder these adventurers, these 
ferocious warriors, these men of giant stature and 
will of iron, fought, pillaged, laid waste the land they 
determined to win as theirs or die? 

The French king finally ceded Neustria — the great 
Normandy of our day — to Rollo or Rou — William's 
ancestor — the most politic of all those dreaded 
Northmen who had sailed up the "Route des 
Cygnes," their ivory horns sounding their dread 
approach. 

Rollo had decided to settle himself in Rouen. 

He and his band of greedy followers were to go 
home no longer to the icy, northern winters. Rollo, 
invading these French lands after the manner of his 
people, by simply establishing himself in Rouen, had 
forced the king's hand. Of a dangerous, powerful, 
ferocious invader, Charles the Simple — not so simple 
as his name — was to make a subject and a convert. 
Rollo became the "man" of the French king; he 
ruled Normandy (Neustria) as its Christianized 
duke; he wedded the king's daughter as he had 

836 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

accepted baptism, as the accepted price for both 
submission as vassal and son-in-law and as a son 
of the Church whose rich abbeys he was now to rule, 
after having despoiled them. 

All the wori<l knows what the Normans made of 
Normandy. These wild-haired, fierce-eyed, semi- 
savage Northmen were first of all to submit to a 
greater power than even the rule of iron law estab- 
lished by their great chief; they were to be subdued 
by climate. The temperate airs, the soft, suave 
coloring of the Seine shores, the constant humidity 
of the soil were to play upon nerves and hardy 
muscles. The ferocious Northman was to become 
the Frenchified Norman. Not so thoroughly French- 
ified as to obliterate all trace, however, of the intrepid 
and colder-veined viking. So persistent have been 
the Norman traits, the Norman characteristics, that 
even to-day, after a thousand years of occupation, 
even by Frenchmen Normandy is considered as 
having a semi-national character. One speaks of 
"going down into Normandy" as one would never 
think of thus specializing a trip to any other French 
province save Brittany. 

Habits of northern frugality; distrust of one's 
neighbors, of strangers; of a passion for litigation 
(the survival of the old fighting spirit) ; of a passion- 
ate devotion to industry; and a tribal preference for 
living strictly en famille — here you have the dis- 
tinguishing Norman traits. 

The Frenchman's gaiety, his expansiveness, his 
making of the pursuit of pleasure an industry — you 

337 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

look in vain in serious Normandy for these French 
attributes. The art of Flaubert, of Guy de Maupas- 
sant is an art veiled with the sad, somber, gray mists 
of the Norman skies. 

Here in Rouen little is left of the old Norman city 
save its famous cathedral and those churches whose 
beauty would make the fame of any city. 

The Renaissance with Francis I gave to Rouen's 
civic buildings imperishable splendor. 



It was on the little green bench in the garden we 
decided what we must sacrifice, and what could still 
be seen of this Rouen treasure city in the few hours 
remaining to us. 

A further tour of the dozen or more interesting 
churches must be abandoned ; neither could we hope 
to follow the calvary Joan of Arc trod from her im- 
prisonment to her burning at the stake in Le Vieux 
Marche; the glories of the Hotel de Ville, of the 
unsurpassable Palais de Justice, must await a more 
lengthened stay; and the museum, with its wealth 
of gathered treasures from every part of Normandy, 
must be a memory. 

For once, indeed, the glories of Rouen must suffer 
an eclipse. The modern rush, the fever of getting 
on, was hurrying my friend to quickened speed. 

The day had been a day of all others in which 
swiftly to review the wonderful city. The golden 
weather that had followed us — a celestial benedic- 

338 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

tion — was even now turning every Rouen street, 
every church fagade, and every sculptured house 
and palace into an illumined shrine. 

We had also been lucky in the day itself. It was 
Sunday. 

There was, therefore, all the more hope of hearing 
a certain bell, one we decided we must hear, and 
later two little chapels must be visited — that, by the 
merest and happiest chance, I had heard spoken of 
as practically unknown to travelers, the charming 
chanoine of the cathedral of Rouen assuring me I 
should be rewarded for my search, when he spoke of 
their interest. 

VI 

In true devout, pilgrim fashion, therefore, we had 
bent our steps to this apsidal garden of St.-Ouen. 
The warm air was still in its Sabbath calm. And 
then suddenly the silence was startled by the chiming 
of the bells of the church. The vergers were ringing 
for high mass. 

There was no mistaking the tonal quality of 
Jumieges's great bell.^ Its deep, sonorous voice rose 
above all other of the bells' chiming. Its sweetness 
and depth of tone had a solemn, awesome richness, 
as though from the tragic experience of its life history 
it brought the warning of the passing away of all 
earthly grandeur. 

One would have liked to talk back, to answer: 



^ The great bell of Juinieges Abbaye bad been taken to Rouen and 
hung among the bells of St.-Ouen. 

339 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

**Lifc is short, every life is incomplete, each 
human elTort can only give half of its true force, but 
as the miiuite insects that Iniilt up the white faces of 
the chalk cliffs lining the Seine must have taken a 
million of years to make firm, by their shells, a single 
inch, so have great men's lives handed on to us the 
firm foundations of the civilizing poAvers we have 
fought for. Jumieges carried on its civilizing 
power — " 

"You are getting didactic," smoothly remarked 
my friend. "Let us go into the church. Wliere is 
the little chapel we were to seek.'^" 

Out from the garden I meekly followed. We 
passed into the nave's lofty interior. The burning 
question arose — could we at this moment visit the 
curious cha})el of which we were in search? Were 
many worshipers ass(»mbled such a demand could 
not even be breathed. The great church was 
empty. In a distant side-eliapel, twinkling tapers 
and the murmur of a priest's voice announced a 
low mass was being said. Still we hesitated. An 
obliging sacristan came to our rescue. 

"Yes, Mesdames, I can show you the chapel; so 
few ask for it, it is a pleasure to show it." 

With the professional air of those whose lives are 
spent in church services of a strictly lay order, the 
sacristan extracted a slender taper from one side- 
pocket and a box of nuitches from another. 

We followed him to a side-chai)el beyond the 
choir. A crimson curtain was lifted, and toehold us 
in between thick walls, descending narrow, steep, 

340 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

stone steps. The qiiiek transition from the lofty, 
gray interior of one of tlie most perfeet of Gotliic 
cliurclies to this survival of the primitive buildings, 
was instantaneous. Down and down we went, 
breathing an air vaulthke in its humidity. We were 
in sepulchral darkness; suddenly the twinkling 
taper was held above our heads. We had come to 
a stop. 

"You arc in the oldest church in Normandy. 
Here in this cha])el Catholicism was born." 

This astoimding announcement was made in a 
tone of voice that carried immediate conviction. 
Disputatious argument nn'ght come later. At the 
moment the rude vaulting, the stone benches, the 
primitive altar, the two little clefts in the walls 
serving as sacristies, were undeniable proofs of the 
underground chapel having been built for secrecy, 
for few worshipers, and for religious services of the 
most abbreviated order. 

To discover so primitive a relic under the floors of 
the finished perfection of St.-Ouen was perhaps the 
really, the chief, the truly sensational impression 
created. 

VII 

The sweet garden scents of the open square fol- 
lowed us to the car. We rolled on to a height above 
the city. We were in quest of another discovery. 
On turning from La Place Cauchoise to the street 
of St.-Gervais we seemed to be entering into country 
sights and country life. 

2.i Ul 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

On this St.-Gervais height the air was singularly 
pure and soft. Houses set about with gardens, in 
which tall shrubs and trees threw shadows upon 
green lawns and garden plots — how far away were 
Rouen's bustling, teeming streets! There was a 
wide expanse of cloudlit blues above; and below, 
wandering with rustic uncertainty, were streets 
skipping downward with a tentative air. 

The scene was set in so rural a frame, it was no 
surprise to see sitting under the trees, in the open 
square below the church, two old gossips, in caps. 
A priest stepped down from the church's side en- 
trance. He stopped, gazed about him, and then he 
took his seat beside the old cronies. 

Once within the church, w^e found high mass was 
over. The sacristan came forward, and again our 
request found favor in his eyes. 

Once again we were startled to find how cleverly 
the church hides its secrets. An innocent-looking 
panel was opened. A dark flight of worn steps led 
us downward. Again the same dead air choked us. 
Once more our stumbling feet came to a rest in a 
darkness that showed us nothing but a small, dijn, 
stony interior. 

The taper hovered over a niched slab. This we 
were told was the tomb of St. -Mellon (311), he 
who came from England, in the fourth century, 
and who brought the worship of Christ and the 
Virgin to Rouen. St.-Mellon was the first Bishop 
of Rouen. 

The taper threw its uncertain light on another 

Mi 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

niched slab. This was the tomb of St.-Mellon's 
successor, Avitien, who died in a.d. 325. 

These dates seemed to be proved as exact by the 
rudeness of chapel and tombs. There were absorb- 
ingly interesting remains of that remote century 
work; the stones of which the walls were built 
seemed to have been thrown into the cement, 
scarcely an attempt having been made to place 
them, to give them security. The capitals of the 
rough pillars were hewn, ai)parently, rather with an 
ax than with the chisel. The primitive altar, the 
sacristy, the worn stone benches, must have been 
of the same age as the chapel of St.-Ouen. 

It is certain that even though these two chapels 
may have been somewhat renovated during the 
IVIiddle Ages, their early fourth-century creation can 
be no fable. Paganism was still the cult of the 
country Caesar had conquered. Beautiful temples to 
Venus, to Bacchus, and to all the pagan gods 
abounded throughout Gaul; the lovely Cyprian 
Queen of Love, of the Graces, was devoutly wor- 
shiped two or three centuries after the Romans 
were gone. It is a grave question, indeed, whether 
the worship of Venus has ever entirely ceased in this 
land of Latinized Frenchmen. 

Our amiable guide, meanwhile, was telling us of a 
reverent tribute paid yearly, in this very cliapel, to 
the memory of its first bishop. High mass is said 
on the anniversary of St.-Mellon's death. The dark 
night of tlie chai)el is illumined by torches and by 
hundreds of tapers. The antique altar disappears 

343 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

under its garlands of flowers and laces. The priests, 
to prove their devotion to their pious founder, bring 
their vestments down from the upper sacristy and 
don them here, before the rude little openings in the 
wall — the older sacristies. And in those ancient 
niches the costly gold vessels used in the service of 
the mass are placed. 

One easily pictures the touching scene. The 
favored few worshipers — for at most the chapel can 
barely hold fifty or sixty persons — these devout wor- 
shipers must sit about on the stone benches, many 
kneeling. The priests in their embroidered chasubles 
and in their laces; the gleaming gold vessels, the 
choir-boys' scarlets, the high lights of the scene; and 
then the play of the lights on the rude background, 
now lighting up the delicate face of a woman or the 
roughened wall-surface; and, falling on the embroid- 
eries of the priestly vestments, the glow of the 
gleaming gold, of the brilliant colors that must make 
a second lighting about the altar — one can readily 
evoke the touching and moving ceremony, at once so 
splendid and so rude! 

The mental vision was still dancing before the 
eyes as I made my way to the open doors of the 
church. One's eyes blinked at the noon sun's 
shining. And the soft warm air was good to feel on 
one's cheeks and brow. 

Centuries ago, I suddenly remembered, the same 
soft, cool air was found to be good, by one of the 
great of earth. He had been borne here, in a litter, 
from a long distance. He came here to die. 

S44 



ROUEN— SEEN IN A DAY 

And then the vision of that slow, agonizing death 
and the harrowing story of the Conqueror's funeral 
came upon mc like a true vision. I saw it. I felt 
it — standing there where he had passed beyond the 
gates of death — where none could do him harm. 

And this is what I saw: 



CHAPTER XXIII 



WILLIAM Till: CONQUEROR S LAST JOURNEY 



TN llie gokloii iiionlh of So] ) I ember, in tlie year 1087, 
-*■ there set forth, from oul Ihe quays of Rouen, 
down the Seine, on as lonely a journey as a body 
bereft of its soul has ever taken, all that earth could 
claim of William, Duke of Normandy, Con(iueror and 
Ki]ig of England. 

The long barge on which the coffin was placed, it 
is recorded, was deckcH.1 with a certain splendor. 
If the old chroniclers who described these last honors 
paid to the greatest man of his time drew on their 
imagination for effective, decorative adjuncts, at 
least the i)ictiu-e they paint accords in every i)articu- 
lar with the dramatic slory of William's last, and 
perhaps the most cruel, of his battles. 

The Shakespearian tragedy of his death followed 
fast upon the accident that befell him during the fray. 

The French king, ever envious of William's i)ower, 
of his rich Norman lands, and of the duke's genius 
of organizalion which had made Normandy (Neus- 
tria) the most valuable, as it was even then the most 
prosperous, of all the lands in France, was tempted 



WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

to make a cruel jest as the Conqueror lay ill in bed 
at Rouen. William's great fame had taken on huge 
proportions during his later years. Taunting his 
enemy and his unwieldy shape, Philip of France 
laughed loud as he cried : 

"King W^illiam has as long a lying-in as a woman 
behind her curtains." 

"Wlien I get up, par la splendeur de Dieu" — 
William swore by his favorite oath — "I will go to 
mass in Philip's land and bring a rich offering for my 
churching. I will offer a thousand candles for my 
fee. Flaming brands shall they be, and steel shall 
glitter over the fire they make." 

There had been border wars between Philip's land 
of Vexin, of which Mantes was the capital, and 
William's Normandy. William had wearied of 
these unceasing French inroads; in his imperious 
way he demanded the surrender of all Vexin. Now 
this insult of his king, in answer to that demand, 
hurled at the most sensitive point, save one, in the 
great man's make-up — for mockery leveled at any 
personal defect or at his illegitimate birth was the 
point Jaible in William's character — this taunt had 
stung him to the pitch of cruel anger. 

As soon as he was physically able William pro- 
ceeded to light those "candles," and flaming brands 
indeed they were! 

All along the lovely country you now may see, as 
did William, riding at the head of his great army, 
between Rouen and Mantes — orchards heavy with 
fruit, harvests garnered or ripe for the sickle, and 

347 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

farms rich in flocks and cattle — the whole set, now 
as then, in an emerald frame of plains, of low hills, 
and of sunlit forests. Through this charming land 
William and his army rode on and on. 

The quiet town you now pass, on your journey 
into Normandy, whose decorative cathedral towers 
you see planted, as it were, against the wide skies, 
from across the plains, seems to have little or no 
historical story to tell the world. The silent streets, 
the modern facades, the town's provincial air of easy 
leisure, appear to hold no secret of a dramatic past. 

The very air and atmosphere of "Mantes la 
Jolie" refuse to yield those secrets of tone, of color 
surprises, that give imagination a lift. The only 
j)ossible beauty you will find in the commonplace 
little city you must seek outside of its brightly 
simned but uninteresting streets. 

The town William and his army entered, in that 
golden Sej)tember month of the year 1087, was the 
typical town of the Middle Ages: the town of low, 
thatched houses, of their rush-laid floors; of their 
glassless windows; of mud and refuse-strewn streets; 
of here and there a fine Norman-arched church to 
prove the distance, in point of comfort and sj)lendor, 
between Cod's domain and man's, and of convents 
and monasteries whose dei)endenci(^s filled half the 
town. 

Vexin, as it was then called, of which Mantes was 
the cai)ilal, was the natural frontier l)etween France 
and Normandy. The French king of that far-away 
day was as uneasy, seated on his throne, as have 

348 



WIT>LIAM THE CONQUEROR 

been some of the rulers of kingdoms in our own 
day. 

A full third part of the whole wealth of France lay 
within the boundaries of Normandy. The fat plains; 
the golden grain-fields; the great orchards tapestried 
with the crimsons, the purples, and the yellows of the 
fortune-yielding fruit-trees; the promenading cattle; 
the droves of sheep — here were the earth-yielding 
proofs of great riches. Shipbuilding, cotton-spin- 
ning, armories, and how many other industries 
attested the fecund vitality of this Normandy's 
pliable force! 

To look on such riches, and not to burn to know 
them to be Norman, in this year of 1087, and not 
French, was to endow a French king with super- 
human virtues of continence. 

Therefore it was that again, as in so many other 
futile attacks, the French king came to make war 
on William his vassal, as duke of over-prosperous 
Normandy, and also his "dear brother," as King of 
England. Slich courteous ties are easily forgotten, 
however, when human passions pull a stronger string. 



II 

As William and his army moved out from Rouen, 
to meet his envious king, as on and on he went, the 
Conqueror made good his ruthless boast. Flaming 
hayricks, burning forests, lighted his army's night- 
watches. Mantes itself was reserved for one of his 

few acts of wanton cruelty. The town was reduced 

349 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIEEDR 

to aslies; not even the cliurclies were spared, and 
yet William was a lover of ehurclies. 

Riding through the burning streets, "the heat of 
the season, and the great fire of the eity, to which 
latter the ardor of his vengeance made him go too 
closely, in order that his orders nn'ght be the better 
executed, (these) caused so sudden an alteration in 
his health that, no longer able to remain in the air, 
he turned to take the road to his lieadquarters. 
Forcing his horse to jump a ditch, he struck so vio- 
lently against the pommel of the saddle that it 
engendered a fever." ^ 

This false step of his steed seemed to his enemies 
the just vengeance of an outraged Providence. It 
was, for William, the beginning of the end. 

Wounded unto death, he was carried in his lilter 
back across the very country he had so ruthlessly 
harried. Both the journey and his illness were long. 
There was time, diu-ing the three weeks of his suffer- 
ing at the Priory of Sl.-Gervais, close to Rouen, for 
dwelling on all the complications, on all the disasters 
so keen and great a mind as William's could not fail 
to foresee would follow on his losing his gras}) of his 
two great possessions — Normandy and England. 

What dark and fateful shapes peopled that death - 
chamber! His half-brothers, sons of his mother's 
by her only righlful husband, Comte dTIerluin of 
Conteville, these great lords William knew to be as 
diingerous to any people over whom they nn'ght reign 
as they had been traitorous to him. Odo was Bishop 

' L'Abbe Prevost, Iliatoirc dc Guillauine, p. 507. 

360 



WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

of Bayeux, had been Regent of England, and was 
Count of Kent. Imprisoned at the time of William's 
death, he was released to return to Normandy. 
lie it was who was to paint, for all time, the mar- 
velous record of the Invasion of England, as well as 
the true picture of the Normans of his day, in the 
famous Tapestry of Bayeux. 

As for his sons, liow could any father think of those 
ungrateful, grasping, unnatural sons save as a strong 
man faces treachery under the gathering gloom of full 
knowledge of their desertion? 

Mathilda, his beloved wife, had died five years 
previous, in 1083. Her body lay in the great choir 
of her own superb abbey, I'Abbaye des Dames, at 
Caen, the penance imposed by the Pope for the un- 
sanctioned marriage of one of the few perfect unions 
known in history. 

Loneliest of dying monarchs, therefore, could even 
the great deeds of his double reign console the 
Conqueror? Could the rule of peace, of orderly 
government, of wise laws that had made Normandy 
a model state warm the heart of a man as abandoned, 
as desolate as was William? The wife of his ten- 
derest as of his later years, Mathilda, lay in her 
tomb at Caen, where one was already being made for 
him. Of his three sons not one was here, among this 
sorrowing company of monks, of courtiers, of 
priests and prelates, to help him die. There was 
not one of his children to give him the comforting 
warmth of filial affection. 

Our acts come back, at certain tragic hours, to 

351 



VV THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

liand us, as though in mockery, the blighted fruit of 
our own seeding. William was not unlike many 
another modern father. It had been his policy to 
keep his sons dependent on him. He enriched his 
barons, had given lavishly to his own half-brothers, 
but neither in England nor in Normandy were lands 
or spoils dealt out to his sons. In the coarse but 
picturesque language characteristic of this man of 
few words and great deeds, when besieged by the 
altogether natural, if somewhat importunate, de- 
mands of one of his sons for a larger share in the 
wealth that was being so liberally bestowed on 
others, William answered : 

"It is not my manner to take off my clothes till I 
go to bed." 

His sons, therefore, at this time, when even the 
strongest and most self-reliant of men stand most in 
need of affection, of feeling that the darkness closing 
in upon them is lighted by the tender flame of love — 
William's sons had fled. Their quarrels were even 
now filling the startled air, an air tremulous with 
fears of unknown danger. 

All England, all Normandy knew the great sun was 
setting. Already England and Normandy were stirred 
to quivering anxiety of what was to befall, once the 
strong hand of the Conqueror was struck down. 

During the long weeks of his suffering William 
had time for settling the graver affairs of his kingdom. 
Certain portions of William's personal wealth were 
wisely divided among his ungrateful heirs. The 
crown of Normandy was given to his eldest son, 

352 



WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

Robert. Tlie awarding of the legacy of England's 
crown even William's master mind found too great 
a perplexity. He relegated the choice of his successor 
as king of England to the man whom, above all 
others, after his beloved Mathilda and the children 
he best loved — to Lanfranc. In this former brilliant 
Italian lawyer; in this founder of the Avranches 
lectures; in this re})entant scholar who took his vows 
as monk of the great Abbaye of Bee; in this first 
abbot of William's own great church at Caen, of 
St.-Etienne — in Lanfranc, the first Archbishop of 
Canterbury, William had found that rarest of treas- 
ures in his kingdom — a true friend and wise coun- 
selor. William the Red, the Conqueror's second 
son, was already in England, to persuade Lanfranc 
to secure to him England's crown. 

William had not only delighted in the building of 
churches; he not only had passed to the clergy some 
of the greatest benefices that were his to give; he 
not only had endowed convents and monasteries as 
other kings enrich favorites — he was himself a true 
son of the Church, a lover of God and of holy men. 
Were not the saintly Anselm, now abbot of the 
Abbaye of Bee, and Lanfranc — were not these good, 
wise men his only, his sole intimates? Wliat a light 
such friendships cast on the nature of the man whose 
life was passed in the heady passions of battles, of 
conquests, of the organizing of great kingdoms, and 
in the ruling of two races as utterly at variance as 
were his own turbulent and arrogant Normans and 

the proud and rebellious Britons! 

y53 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

After having also made liberal provision for the 
poor, as he lay on his couch at the Priory of St.- 
Gervais, William prepared himself for the dread 
hour. Great men meet death for the most pari with 
a grand air. Caesar, as he fell at the base of Pom- 
pey's statue, could remember to cover his face with 
his mantle, lest his murderers might see his features 
tortured by the death agony. The same grave 
concern for decency, for making the final exit 
with the grace of dignity, inspires, I believe, all 
the greater minds to meet death with a courage 
we call Spartan or Christian, according to the era 
of a hero's epoch or to the character of his philos- 
ophy or creed. 

The shadows were now gathering thick about the 
master mind of Europe. The scene the old chroni- 
clers paint for us of the Conqueror's death-bed is one 
that may conceivably have been arranged to impress 
the popular mind. Yet the broad outlines agree with 
all the more authentic estimates of William's charac- 
ter. He was surrounded by prelates, by priests, and 
bj' monks, we are told. In the quiet and retirement 
of the distant priory, Rouen's busy roar of life was 
dulled. Amid trees and verdure a quiet air helped 
a soul to mount to serener heights. 

One morning, at the hour of prime, William awoke, 
to hear the great bell of the cathedral at Rouen 
ringing its clangorous chimes. As though he had 
never before heard this music swinging in midair, 
he asked what it might mean. On being told by lii.s 
attendants the bells were being rung for matins, 

35-i 



WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

William lifted his eyes and hands heavenward as he 
said a brief prayer. lie breathed again, and was 
dead. 

Ill 

It is our convenient habit to sum up certain tragic 
situations as Shakespearian. But Shakespeare him- 
self sought his scenes and characters in records of 
hfe and history. 

In this death of William and of all that followed 
there were sufiScient elements of drama and of 
tragedy to furnish genius with the 7mse-en-scene of 
half a dozen historical plays. 

The recital of the panic that seized on all the prel- 
ates and ecclesiastics who had sw^armed about the 
Conqueror's death-bed as hungry sharks about a 
victim — the richer among them mounting their 
steeds, those who must walk hurrying away to look 
after their possessions as though menaced by an 
advancing enemy; the pillaging of the priory, that 
had been one of the chateaux of former Norman 
dukes, of all valuables, of even linen and furniture 
as well as of all its silver and ornaments — what a 
scene for a painter of words! 

In the chamber where he died William's body, 
even that poor debris of power lay, stripped, naked, 
and deserted. 

In Rouen itself and beyond the city the panic, 
meanwhile, had spread to every inhabitant. It 
seemed as though all Normandy were possessed with 
an access of folly. Many left town, carrying with 

355 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

tliein all portable valuables. Others hid all that 
could be secreted. The fear of a coming revolution 
was in every one's mind. 

No greater i)roof could be given of the power 
wielded by William, of his firm control over his Nor- 
man subjects, and of his rule of justice and orderly 
government, than the panic of fear and dismay in 
which his death had plunged his dukedom. 

A single knight, Herluin of Conteville, kept control 
of both head and heart. Years ago William had 
"righted his mother." That romance of his father's 
courting of Arlette, the tanner's daughter, by the 
fountain at Falaise, the fountain that lay below 
Robert's great castle, was never viewed in the light 
of romance by the proud and supersensitive offspring 
of that love adventure. One of the first authorita- 
tive acts of William the Bastard had been to gi\ e his 
mother, Arlette, a husband — a marriage blessed by a 
priest. 

Robert the Magnificent — or the Devil^both 
sobriquets, but the b'jtler paint the large unruly 
nature of the man — Robert, father of William, had 
died in far distant Eastern lands, lands which, from 
the point of view of the eleventh century, seemed to 
be earth's terminus. 

The mad longing to reach Jerusalem having been 
satisfied, the fate of so many other thousands of 
crusaders had met Robert on the return joiuney. 
He had died emitting a last racy jest to be carried 
down the centuries. "Tell my people," he had 
laughed out to some of his subjects as he lay in his 

350 



WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

lit lor, who askea what message they should deliver 
to his Normans — "tell my people you saw me carried 
to heaven In- four Saracen heathen." 

Arlette, therefore, being, if not a wedded wife, 
at least free, could wed. 

It was her husband, Herluin, one of the few 
courtiers about the king, who was to prove his grati- 
tude for the double gift of a fair and lovely wife, and 
for all the riches his great son-in-law had bestowed 
on him and his. William's body might have lain 
there unshrouded — who knows.'' — unburied, such 
were the disorders of those wild days, had not 
Herluin proved he had a heart. 

"However, the body of the king would have re- 
mained without burial if a simple nobleman named 
Herluin, pushed," says the Norman historian, "by 
his natural goodness and to perform an act agreeable 
to God, as well as to save the honor of the nation, 
had not taken upon himself the care of the funeral." 
Such a record proves the simplicity of the times, 
as well as the illuminating fact that while William 
could bring law and order out of chaos, could, by his 
long reign of justice and enterprise, develop and 
insure prosperity, he had not organized his court. 
France itself must indeed await the advent of 
Frangois I for a true court to be formed. 

Herluin planned his great benefactor's funeral on 
a scale commensurate with kingly state. First, 
the frightened ecclesiastics must be brought back 
to the priory, from Rouen, to participate in the last 
offices of the dead. Both exhortations as well as 

24 357 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

rich offerings were necessary to gather together 
these unworthy sons of the Church. 

A procession finally set out from Rouen with the 
Archbishop of Rouen, under his dais, at their head. 
This latter notability, having been paid to remember 
what should have been his first thought both as 
man and priest, bethought him of a means of placing 
the corpse where it might not be a too frequent 
reminder of benefits forgot. The archbishop or- 
dained William's body should be taken to Caen, there 
to be entombed in his own church of St.-Etienne. 

The mortal part of William, therefore, was now 
made ready for its last voyage. Herluin made his 
preparations on a scale suitable with the grandeur of 
a reign that had lasted forty-two years. The barge, 
we are told, was broad and long, for William was 
a large man, and as tall as had been his viking 
forefathers. The casket was placed where all 
could see. 

All Normandy who could crowd the banks of the 
Seine lined the shores. If the news of the great 
duke's and king's death could be transmitted, pre- 
sumably by hill-fires, to Sicily in a single day,^ the 
knowledge that his funeral rites were to be as none 
other monarchs had ever been must have flown to 
every hamlet and thatched cottage, to town and 
castle, for wide miles behind the green Seine banks. 

Out from the crowded Rouen quays the barge 
slipped into the shining waters. The September sun 
lit up a scene which no man who looked upon it 

^ Freeman, History of Normandy. 

358 



WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

would ever look upon the like again, nor would his 
children's children be allowed to forget the sight. 

Under its purple-and-crimson pall there lay the 
broad, long coffin. The two crowns of Normandy 
and of England are said to have rested above the 
head that had worn both so nobly. Were the scep- 
ters also beside him ? Yet of what avail such insignia 
of royalty.^ The mighty hand was nerveless, that 
hand before whose strength of blow no man could 
stand, whose bow no man could bend. 

Thus, in royal state, did William set forth on his 
last journey. 

Once beyond the close islands about Rouen, the 
barge and its burden took their slow way between 
the long Seine reaches. Of those who followed him 
to his last resting-place history's page is a blank. 
One name and only one shines bright as the fluttering 
wings of a guardian angel, for surely Herluin must 
have been beside his sacred charge. 

The sound of trumpets, sanctifying the dirge — the 
hosts of following courtiers, prelates, sons — where 
were they.'* William on his last voyage was as 
lonely as he had been in his life. His true escort 
were his sorrowing people who knew now, had they 
never hitherto reckoned up their debts to him who 
was floating silently, motionless, and still forever, 
down the great river, before their straining eyes, to 
the open grave at Caen — they knew now the friend 
and ruler they had lost. 

The activity of William's genius, the fertility of 
power in him, the very wildness that had been trans- 

;559 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

mitted to him by his viking ancestors — being a wild- 
ness his grave character had governed to help him 
surmount all but insurmountable obstacles — all 
these greater manifestations of the forces of William's 
character had probably made men fear him, dread 
liim, envy him more than they had loved him. 
History, as have Normandy and England, has done 
him justice. He whose sentiments of justice, of 
humanity, were far beyond his age and time, who, 
harsh, terrible as he could show himself to those who 
betrayed him or who had wronged him, "became 
another man, was gracious and easy of speech " with 
his two beloved "holy men" — with Anselm and 
Lanfranc. 

If the spirit which is said by certain occultists to 
hover over the body until it be laid at rest fluttered 
above the great Norman who was passing, as it were, 
in review the sites and lands he had made literally 
to blossom like the rose, surely that disembodied 
spirit must have had the clearer vision vouchsafed 
the soul when it takes its first immortal flight. 
Above the lisping river, louder than the prayers and 
chanted hymns of the people, the hovering spirit 
must have whispered, "I may have sinned, but I 
have bettered, I have not wronged, the world." 



CHAPTER XXIV 

ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 



WE were looking down on a part of the Nor- 
mandy world William the Conqueror "had 
bettered." It was such a prospect as might have 
moved even a small-souled monarch to thrill with 
a sense of possessorship, and to resolve to rule it 
with wdsdom, and to beautify it with loving care. 

Our road to Amiens and to the battlefields led 
us up the steep hills to the north of Rouen. 

The vast outlook over the city, over the towering 
hills, over the serpentining Seine, its islands and 
the distant fields, presented another of those sur- 
prises France holds as one of the chief secrets of 
her compelling, mysterious charm. 

This France of many faces wore here as changed 
an aspect as though a frontier had been passed. 
Breadth, grandeur, contrasting shapes of hills, a 
wondrous city set like a jewel in among her forested 
mountains — where match the splendor of this Nor- 
man prospect.^ Florence, from the heights of Fiesole, 
has certain features in common with this, our last 
vision of the city of churches and its encompassing 

361 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

hills. But this northern earth has more rugged, 
irruptive outlines, as it climbs skyward; the con- 
trasting greens are deeper, and the ever-flashing 
sparklets of silvery lights one misses in the Florentine 
[ ensemble. 

There was one last, lingering look over the city, 
swimming as in a tinted lake in the early summer- 
morning mist; the sun-rays were gilding the worn 
gray towers and the great roof of the monster 
cathedral; its central spire pierced the blue like 
an arrow flashed skyward. 

Earth took up the poem man had written in carven 
stone to lift heavenward its own beauties. The sky 
was fretted by the wavering, undulating lines of the 
blues, greens, or pale yellows of the surrounding hills. 

It was the Seine, however, which eyes and thoughts 
followed with even more poignant regret than the 
Pilgrim's Hill of Bon-Secours, just opposite, or the 
forests, or the wakening city. 

The river had yielded up its secret; we had learned 
its story; and remembrance flew far afield as we 
realized its meaning to us, to France, and to the 
world. 

Even as the river was lighted by sudden sun- 
bursts, its waters sparkling with flashes of prismatic 
light, or was clouded to dim grays by a passing cloud, 
so did the Seine's historic past, its two thousand 
years of troubled life, seem to be imaged for us on 
the face of its waters. 

We were leaving this prosperous, untouched 
France behind. We were to be within a few short 

3C2 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

hours in the country German barbarism had wrecked, 
had seemingly ruined beyond repair. 

And that sparkhng river seemed to send us a 
message. It was as though the voice of France itself 
spoke — through this, her liquid voice: 

"Look upon all I have been, all I have achieved. 
See what a magnificent page I have written, even 
here on the shores of my great river. Remember all 
I have endured, suffered, conquered, and outlived. 
Neither savage invasions, nor foreign conquests, nor 
battles, nor sieges, nor even wars of inimical religions 
could subdue nor could they destroy my people. 

"How many times, in these two thousand years 
of life, have I risen, again and again, to prove the 
vitality of my race! 

"The spirit that survived the Roman conquest, 
that subdued the piratical Normans and made them 
great and French; the heroism that swept on from 
the Crusades to the fallen heroes of Agincourt and 
Crecy to inflame my soldiers to endure a Hundred 
Years' War, and that burst with fullest glory in 
the two battles of the Marne — this is the spirit that 
is France. It is the unquenchable flame that lights 
the soul of Frenchmen. 

"Even as I, the Seine, carry along to the seas the 
riches of art, of the architectural triumphs that 
star my shores, from the grandeur at Paris that 
is Notre-Dame to the chiseled laces of St.-Maclou 
and the Caudebec or Ilarfleur's later Gothic; as I 
show plowed fields, rich orchards, and chiiteaux set 
in their midst, that have outlived wars and sieges, 

3G3 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

so you will see France sending forth again to the 
world her treasured cargoes of new thought, of fresh 
endeavor, scattering that generous seed of her 
genius which fertilizes and recreates. 

"Therefore help me to long life, for I am one of the 
lantern-bearers of the world." 

It was such voices I heard, ringing in my cars, 
a soft, sibilant murmur, as the city faded into her 
mists and as the hills melted into vapor. 

Once out on the smooth, winding road leading to 
Amiens, another world and a different sky announced 
the north. Pines, spruce-trees, and larches spread 
their sharp needles or drooped their pendent boughs. 
The fields wore deeper tones; the farms were built 
of brick, cement, or stone. A thatched roof became 
as novel a sight as would have been the softer colors 
of the Normandy landscape; these had been suc- 
ceeded by ruddier planes of contrasting hues. 

The skies, as we were swept on and on, recalled the 
skies of Ilobbema or of Coypel. Thick, compact 
mounds of snowy clouds moved like battalions 
across the colder blues, blues that were at once 
deeper in tone, more solid than the Norman vault. 

There seemed a greater space between farmlands, 
with villages more tightly grouped. The Seine 
orchards had given place to great stretches of tilled 
fields ; the golden grain in some of these was already 
garnered; in others, the early September golden 
light was tinting the gilded spears of wheat to shine 
like a burnished diadem, its jewels set in spirals. 

Nearing the war zone, one's eyes were stretched 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

to see the first trench, the earliest sign of the great 
conflict. But green or pale-gold fields succeeded 
groups of thickly set trees, of farms closer and 
closer in touch, and all that the nobly modeled land- 
scape spelled for our eager, curious eyes was but 
striving industry and the calm of settled peace. 



II 

Suddenly, we were sweeping along a wide and 
dusty thoroughfare. A group of shattered houses, 
houses with walls mostly in their cellars, houses with 
roofs sagging helplessly into what once were bed- 
rooms, a salon, or a boudoir, houses that had the 
dissolute air of having gone to pieces and making 
no sort of effort to regain stability — since wrecks 
they were and wrecks they must remain! Yes, this 
was the war zone in very truth! 

We were in Amiens. 

There could be no misreading the staring signs. 
There were more and more ruined dwellings. The 
side-streets were still cluttered with debris, with 
fallen masonry, with split bricks, and with masses 
of cement turned sallow by rain and weather. 

On the walls of the city, as we made further prog- 
ress, as on a tragic page, there were still written, in 
blazing letters, the records of Amiens's historic agony. 

*' Abri pour 50 — Abri pour 150 — Abri pour 30." 
("Shelter for 50— shelter for 150— shelter for 30.") 
These words, printed or written in large letters, on 

bits of coarse paper, pasted on a door-jamb or on a 

3Gr> 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

house wall — here were the grim reminders of Amiens's 
sufferings and of the courageous stand taken by 
many of her citizens when the city was under 
the fire of the German guns. 

When that swift onrush — swift as breaking dawn, 
destructive as some elemental, cataclysmic force — 
when the German army swept across the open coun- 
try of Champagne and Picardy, on March 21, 1918, 
and von Hutier's army came to a halt but a few 
kilometers from Amiens, the lovely city became the 
favorite target for the play of the enemy fire. 

Amiens, thereafter, for long weeks, was bom- 
barded night and day. When the guns were not 
directing their attacks on houses or churches or 
civic buildings, German avions swooped and swirled 
up among the star-dusted skies. Aviators sent their 
bombs and incendiary torpedoes to flash their de- 
structive fires on defenseless dwellings and on archi- 
tectural masterpieces that were the pride not alone 
of Amiens itself, not alone of France, but of every 
living man born of woman, since in such achieve- 
ments man had proved to what a height human 
genius could soar. 

Amiens took the tragedy of her punishment for 
being a coveted center, as Paris, her co-sufferer, 
was taking hers. At first, Picardy's former capital's 
courageous citizens resisted, set their teeth, and 
sent their women and children to the cellars, to 
which, in time, all must go. 

Even for the bravest the incessant bombing be- 
came, for many, too great a strain. 

3GG 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

Day after day, thereafter, was formed that other, 
tlie most pathetic of all the armies — the army of the 
refugees. Out from burning houses, from wretched 
homes, from homes that were still intact — but for 
how long? — old men, women, and children took the 
loneliest, the longest of all roads — the one that led 
to exile. 

Weary and hungered, bereft of all hope were those 
who, after endless days and nights, in crowded 
trains, in cold and cheerless stations, finally reached 
Rouen or Paris or lower Normandy. 

Even should a Frenchman voluntarily exile him- 
self, even such a one can at best but stifle the break- 
ing sob as he looks his last on "La douce France.'" 

For those involuntarily ex-patriots who, at a few 
short hours', in many cases at even a few minutes', 
notice, must leave behind every dear and cherished 
household good and god — who, as they fly, have 
seen their home in flames, their dear ones, perhaps, 
either maimed or killed — for such as these, what 
heart-tearing anguish must rend the soul, making the 
mind a very tabernacle of agonized remembrance. 

A certain chorus — the chorus of the disconsolate 
- — rose up from many of the wayside gares, from 
Rouen stations, and others. Those of us who heard 
that mounting wail can liken it only to the dread 
voices of anguish Dante heard when he listened to 
the cries of the damned in hell. 

For these refugees, in this, their prolonged chorus 
of sobbing, were burying their dead. All those yeajs 
of toil, of hard, silent, patient labor, of the laying 

307 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

of one sou on another, had meant as the promised 
recompense for later years of ease and comfort, all 
this garnered spoil of the long years that had been 
stored in the humble, but cozy Amiens home, was 
but debris now. These trophies of the hard-won 
success of the poorer ones, as were the richer goods 
and chattels and the costless souvenirs of the 
wealthier expatriates, were now all one with splin- 
tered bricks and pulverized mortar. 

As we swept past those wretched Amiens houses 
the echo of that chorus of the disconsolate rang in 
my ears; the picture was again set before eyes that 
were blurred with a mist — the picture of the bowed 
forms, of the bent faces, down whose shrunken cheeks 
tears were falling like rain, as the choking sobs 
gathered in volume till the very air vibrated with the 
rhythmic beat of that unbearable sorrow. 



Ill 

There came the crashing music of a military band; 
drums were beating their loudest; there was the 
metallic clashing of cymbals, the tenor notes of 
sonorous flutes, and soaring above the tumult of 
sound one heard the brassy notes of loud-voiced 
trumpets. 

An English regiment, headed by the gorgeously 
uniformed bandmaster, who was executing his acro- 
batic fantastic tricks with his drumstick, was march- 
ing to the Amiens station, homeward bound. 

The blaze of this music filled the street. We 

368 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

were to hear its feebler echo in the hotel garden 
where English officers were lolling in wicker chairs. 
A tall Pole, with his orderly, whose eyes were fol- 
lowing every motion of his superior officer with the 
look of consecrated devotion that has died in the 
eyes of the serving class; two Serbs, in their dark 
grays; American Red Cross officers, some with strings 
of medals attesting their work in foreign missions; 
and half a dozen ladies with their daughters and 
children, filled the seats grouped about the tea-tables. 

Above the clink of spoons and the more delicate 
clash of the teacups one heard that curious medley, 
that mingling of many tongues grown as familiar 
in all parts of the world as once foreigners were con- 
sidered to be true curiosities. 

Amiens, nearly a year after the armistice, was still 
the crowded city of congested traffic. The streets 
were full of dusty carts and mud-stained camions; 
the sidewalks were crowded w^th soldiers, with Y. 
M. C. A. men and women, with the heavier Dutch 
or Flemish faces, and with here and there a bearded 
Russian, in his blouse. Also here and there a 
French officer or a poilu maneuvered through the 
crowded thoroughfare to remind one Amiens was still 
a French city, though thus invaded by this flood of 
foreign allies. 

IV 

The Amiens I had embalmed as among the treas- 
ured cities of unforgetable, of delectable, memories 
was the Amiens of pre-war days. 

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UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

The Amiens of that time was the city of an inef- 
fable charm, aiireoled in beauty and romance. It 
was the city of the great cathedral and of Puvis de 
Chavannes. 

This Amiens was a city of calm aspect, of quiet 
streets, and of a parochial air that was at once re- 
plete with dignity and was possessed of a certain air 
of aristocratic reserve. 

One's feet led one as instinctively to the cathedral 
as to a shrine — for shrine it was and is such doubly 
now, since, with Rheims gone, the mutilated victim 
of German barbarism, the glory of Gothic art in 
France centers in Chartres and Amiens. 

You will go to your guide-books, or to more 
elaborate and learned treatises on the glory that still 
is the glory of Amiens cathedral to spell out the 
history, and, if possible, to evoke the spiritual sig- 
nificance of as wondrous a human achievement as 
is this triumph of architectural beauty. You will 
be caught in a maze of wonder at the elaborate 
variety of the traceries, at the mingled strength and 
yet alluring delicacy of all lines in the columns, 
in the fine triforium, and in the soaring height of 
the great nave, the latter surpassed only by that 
of the Beauvais cathedral. You will wander in 
delighted rapture from the famous choir-stalls, with 
their surpassingly beautiful carven figures, to the 
finely wrought iron altar-screens, and again and yet 
again you will wish to study the treasures of sculpture 
in side-chapels and low doors. 

In the three superb recessed porches whose crowd- 

370 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

ed figures of prophets, of saints, of wise and foolish 
virgins, were once gilded, or were richly painted, 
between the great porches, *'Ze Beau Dieii cV Amiens''' 
looks down on the faces lifted beneath him with that 
detached spirituality of aspect too rarely divined 
by the interpretating human portraitist. 

There will be hours, as there should be days, de- 
voted to close study of all the infinite variety of 
design, to the scientific balance in matters of pro- 
portion and structural stability, and to the never- 
ending surprises yielded by the harmony of every 
related part in this great edifice. 

There ^\-ill be other moments when colors, tones, 
and softened lights will lure one to sit on and on. 
The "Wheel of Fortune," the great rose- window 
above the door of the south transept, will flood the 
gray interior with its prismatic hues. The flash and 
sparkle of reds, yellows, greens, and blues will touch 
here a gilded saint, there a richly robed virgin, whose 
painted face may seem endowed with a semblance 
of life; and if the deep organ tones should flood the 
aisles, and the choir-boys' voices soar in crystalline 
purity to break in melodic waves against the lofty 
vaultings of the nave, then perhaps some dim per- 
ception, in such a moment of sensuous ecstasy, 
since ecstasy makes for vision, of the true signifi- 
cance of such a cathedral as Amiens may break 
through the dimmed imagination of our agnostic- 
tainted twentieth-century souls. 

We have lost the power to produce such beauty. 
The faith that inspired such masterpieces as these 

371 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

triumplis of Gothic architecture is as dead as are 
most of the hfeless gray interiors of churches and 
cathedrals bereft of their transfiguring stained glass, 
of the rich gilding, of the painted marbles, of the 
multitudes of statues resplendent in jeweled robes 
and sparkling diadems, and of altars once as in- 
crusted with precious stones as a king's diadem. 

We call the period that produced such splendor 
the "Middle Ages"; they were resplendent with the 
shining of a light that now, in our mechanical, in- 
dustrial age, is a light that never shines on land or 
sea. We live, at times, by the flashing beams of 
another light; but the medieval spirituality that 
blossomed into beauty, into such objective, con- 
crete expressions that proved the soul of a period — 
this inspirational incentive we have lost, perhaps, 
forever. 



Of the harm done to the cathedral by incendiary 
bombs, there was abundant proof in these September 
days of 1919. Altars had been stripped, leaving 
bare the solid framework of brick or marble sup- 
ports. Crippled chairs were still cluttered together; 
there were indistinguishable heaps of broken backs, 
dislocated legs, and crushed seats. 

Saints and statues of the Virgin were in strange 
surroundings; planted in the midst of sand-bags 
and gilt cornices or bits of sculpture, they had the 
distressed air of having lost their way, of being 
abandoned by man and Heaven. The costly tapes- 

372 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

tries, the pictures ornamenting side-chapels, the 
precious stained-glass windows, the more famous 
statues, had long since been taken away, stored in 
places insuring protection from bomb destructive- 
ness or German fury of pillage. The absence of all 
these decorative glories gave a tragic look of de- 
sertion, of abandonment, to the great interior. 

And yet the noble edifice still held within its 
massive frame the spirit of France. ''A thousand 
memories of English history are bound up with 
those of France," wrote Mr. Gibbs, in his admirable 
account of Amiens, in the days when the city's fate 
hung in the balance. "Beneath these very arches 
Edward III strode with his crown on his head, with 
his sword at his side, his gilded spurs on his heel, 
and, claiming the kingdom of France, began the 
Hundred Years' War. Henry V leaned against one 
of those very pillars as he whispered to his queen, 
'Dame, Katherine!'" 

Apart from its historic cathedral, Amiens has had 
its epoch-making records of historic interest. Csesar, 
who captured everything but the gift of long life, 
conquered what two thousand years ago was known 
as the town of the Ambiani. These were fluctuating 
periods when Amiens was owned by the Duke of 
Burgundy, only to be returned to France by Louis 
XI; and later, the Spaniards came to find their 
piize wrenched from them by the gallant Frenchman 
who, once king of France as Henri IV, must have all 
France for Frenchmen. The famous Peace of 
Amiens, concluded in 180^2 between France, Great 
25 y~^ 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Britain, Spain, and Holland, was a peace as long as 
Napoleon was at war. 

The Germans once were able to enter the city, 
in November, 1870, after their first battle of Amiens, 
preceding by fifty years the second battle of Amiens, 
which was to prove the beginning of their fall as 
the greatest military power ever known. 



VI 

The true romance of Amiens I found to be the 
story of the remarkable relations that existed, for 
a long period of years, between Amiens and Puvis 
de Chavannes. It is such a page as one reads in the 
lives of the Renaissance painters and artists, when 
genius found itself linked with wealth and magnifi- 
cence, in those days when great princes glorified 
themselves in their glorifying art, and, incidentally, 
unknowingly, assured themselves an immortality 
their own deeds would, perhaps, never have won 
them. 

In Amiens, the princes who first discerned in Puvis 
de Chavannes the genius that was to add a new and 
glorious star to the constellation of French art were 
princes of industry. 

Certain of the great merchants of Amiens were the 
first among connoisseurs to recognize the elements of 
greatness in the painter's work. They bought for 
the Amiens museum his "Work" and "Repose." 

Up to this moment Puvis de Chavannes had 
wc'ked practically in secret, unappreciated, his work 

371 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

almost unknown. In his earlier days he had followed 
the great army of his predecessors along the "broad 
highway of the Renaissance"; he had "passed 
through" Coutures's atelier. Then, not finding in 
these directions the path that suited his creative 
powers, he turned to tread the lonely path of original 
discovery. 

For years Puvis suffered the slings and arrows of 
that outrageous fortune hostile and jealous criticism 
metes out to all daring and original creators. His 
work was laughed at, held up to contemptuous 
ridicule, disowned as having the right to call itself 
a branch of French art. 

Silently, steadfastly, Puvis held to the rock of his 
conviction, to truth as he saw it and felt it, and to 
the intuitive sense and enlightened knowledge that 
inspired him to treat mural painting as only Giotto 
had conceived it. 

After these years of struggle and obscurity to 
find in the comprehending merchants of Amiens gen- 
erous patrons, this intelligent recognition so elated 
Puvis that the painter, in his own large-hearted way, 
insisted on giving two of his already completed 
works to the museum. 

This fortunate purchase of the first two paintings 
sold to the Amiens museum had two far-reaching 
results: its effect on decorative art not alone on 
France, but on the future of all mural work, since 
Puvis 's creations were to develop an entirely new 
school of mural painting adapted to architecture 
was, of course, the greater, the incalculably endur- 

375 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

able result; but on the life and methods of work of 
the painter himself the sale of his pictures had a 
most lasting influence. 

Amiens adopted Puvis as its most cherished son. 
The city took the painter to its heart, showering 
upon him its love, admiration, and tender apprecia- 
tion. Other great works were ordered, and Puvis 
was given time, leisure, and every facility to produce 
his masterpieces. 

Puvis responded to this touching proof of a great 
city's affection by making it his home for seventeen 
years. As fame and fortune came following fast, 
the great painter remained true to those who first 
had proved worthy of his gratitude. Away from 
Paris, its distractions and interruptions, in his quiet 
Amiens house and in his great studio, the painter 
could develop his poetic designs, he could invite his 
genius to reveal her secrets in the calm of undis- 
turbed inspiration. 

In the Amiens museum there are walls covered 
with some of the greatest of the paintings of the 
master. I hold it indeed as a proof of those who 
"know" Puvis that they have also known the 
painter's work at Amiens. If, as Puvis is rej)uted to 
have said of the mural decorations in the Pantheon 
at Paris, that he wished them to be "Mon Testa- 
ment,*' his Amiens pictures should be considered 
as another "legacy" to France. 

In the museum itself the painter was given, as it 
were, a free hand. Much of the taste displayed in 
the manner of arranging of the many works of art, 



ON THE ROAD TO AMIENS 

the very hangings of draperies at the doors, prove 
the decorative talent of those who beautify all they 
touch. 

In this Amiens museum, Puvis de Chavannes 
seems to have left a faint reflection of the smile — 
of that kindly, comprehending smile, that faded only 
when his wife, the Princess Cantacuzene, died. 

With her death, the lover and husband felt the 
light gone out of life. A few months later, "Leave 
me," the painter whispered to those about him. 
He must meet the great silence as, in the early years, 
he had lived it — alone. 



CHAPTER XXV 

ON THE ROAD TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 



TF, in that September of 1919, nearly a year after 
"*■ the armistice, we entered Amiens to find the city 
repeopled, its streets thronged with men, its shops 
gay with merchandise, yet there were its wrecked 
houses, its mutilated churches, and the great roof 
of the cathedral open to the sky — the opening made 
by descending bombs, to prove the long martyr- 
dom of Picardy's former capital. 

The battle of Amiens is now a part of the history 
of the great war. But already, so swift is the finger 
of time to obliterate the writing on the scroll of 
memory, many of the main outlines of the great 
struggle are dimmed, have become indistinct, and 
arc merged in the ensemble of the tremendous con- 
flict that lasted nearly five years. 

The chief, indeed the imperative, reason for be- 
ginning one's tour of the battlefields at Amiens and 
its adjacent towns — or what is left of them — lies in 
the pregnant fact that at Hamel, at Villers-Bre- 
tonneux close to the city, some of our own American 
troops had there their first bai)tism of fire; and that 

378 



ON THE ROAD TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

their superb fighting qiiahties in these battles were 
first demonstrated not only to their amazed and 
admiring allies, but as well to the incredulous and 
contemptuous Germans. 

The road from Amiens to Villers-Bretonneux is 
one long record of the bitter battles fought for the 
possession of Amiens by the German armies, and of 
the Spartan courage of the Allied forces in defending 
the city. 

No sooner is one out of Amiens than the tragic 
signs confront us with what modern warfare can 
write on a lovely landscape, utterly to change and 
disfigure its beauty and productiveness. One seems 
to have been plunged into the very heart of the con- 
flict. Tanks with broken bodies half buried in mud; 
miles and miles of barbed wires, zigzagging in ap- 
parently irresolute lines across what once were fields 
and groves of trees; trees the very skeleton of their 
former shape and foliaged beauty, whose bare ec- 
centric branches stretched in seeming human agony 
against the soft September skies, appear to call on 
heaven itself to witness the horror of their nudity 
and disfigurement; and, as far as the eye can reach 
across the now recaptured green of earth's fecundity, 
twisting, turning, slanting downward into the very 
bowels of the earth, coiling in serpentining twists, 
were the trenches. Miles and miles of them stretched 
across plains, fields, ran up the hills, only to run 
down again; some so close together they seem to be 
competing in a race for space; some still yawning 
deeply, plunging earthward, now, with a year of 

379 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

mud and rain filling the crevices, to give an objective 
reminder of the beds and living they offered to mill- 
ions of shivering soldiers. 

The long lines of streaking whites that traversed 
the fields were the trenches already filled in, the 
chalk of the subsoil having been so mixed with 
earth as to stain it a roughened, snowy purity. 

Near and beyond Hamel the ground was so laced 
with these whitened lines that for a plow to pass 
between would have been as difliicult as for the 
legendary camel to pass through the eye of the equally 
legendary needle. 

Every sign of war, every horror that could mark 
a recent battlefield, every tortured form of tree or 
wrecked house, or burnt village — all of these one 
sees as one passes along the road that leads one to 
Villers-Bretonneux, to Hamel, to Albert, to Ba- 
paume, to Peronne, or to Arras. 

You may sup on horrors and take your fill of 
the terrorizing proofs of what man can endure, and 
of what man, returned to savagery, can inflict. 



II 

In this journey, for the purpose of looking upon 
the battlefields that surround Amiens, two experi- 
ences stand out with peculiar, impressive significance. 

On the road to Villers-Bretonneux there suddenly 
appeared a group of American soldiers. Several 
camions were alined close to the left of the road. 
At the open end of these camions stood several of 

380 



ON THE ROAD TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

the men. Across the fields, close to the roadside, 
were deep excavations where soldiers were busily 
shoveling the earth into mounds, to free these oblong 
holes in the ground. 

Strange-looking packages, cased in brown sacking, 
were carefully lifted from these tomblike openings. 
With equal care the bundles were conveyed to the 
camions. There the men awaiting these gruesome- 
looking objects as painstakingly lifted each one into 
the camions' interior, laying one on top of the other 
in neat piles. 

There were few words interchanged between the 
men. There was some checked laughter, some 
whistling arrested, as our car drew near and came to 
a stop. 

With the genial friendliness so delightfully Amer- 
ican, several of the men came forward. 

To our rapid questioning, one tall Texan replied, 
with unembarrassed ease, and in the tone of "it's 
all a matter of business": 

"Why, marm, we're just taking some of our boys, 
who dropped hereabouts, and were buried in this 
'ere plot. We're to take 'em over yonder, to the big 
bury ing-ground . ' ' 

"There — you can see it — that white spot shining 
above Villers-Bretonneux," interrupted a fair-faced 
boy. He pointed to an indistinct mass of hilly 
ground above what once was the busy town of 
Villers-Bretonneux. 

The matter-of-fact acceptance of these devoted 
men in a reburial of our heroes could not inoculate 

381 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

our less hardened sensibilities with their own phlegm. 
We had not covenanted for this gruesome spectacle 
in our adventure into battle-land. 

The remembrance of those unearthed, long, brown 
bundles haunted us, rose up before every green bit 
of unharmed field, were a ghostly company that pur- 
sued us unrelentingly, until other ghosts, of a fate 
as cruel, confronted us, made our hearts melt in pity, 
and made death itself seem less the sad end of a 
chapter that was a stricken, mutilated city. 

For Villers-Bretonneux was in ruins. Its houses 
lay in broken bits of brick and plaster on every side. 
Streets must be guessed at, and for a car to make its 
way through the piled-up masses of debris was the 
feat only of an expert driver. 

An English flag, a group of tents, and some tall, 
shapely men in khaki lured us to seek a sure refuge. 
A unit of the Australian Y. M. C. A. was still on 
duty. Its most obvious duty appeared, on the in- 
stant of our arrival, to give us an English welcome. 
None of the returned refugees to this ruined town 
could have been more grateful than were we for the 
warmth of the brightly lit stoves, for the steaming- 
hot coffee, for the delicious loaves of white bread, 
and for the English cigarette and the sound of the 
English voices. 

Commenting on the martyrdom of the town, 
"Oh, there are plenty of people about; they're all 
comin' back; they'll soon have it cleared up; they're 
as glad to get back as are we to go home," was the 
cheerful response. Our new friend was seated on 

382 



ON THE ROAD TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

the edge of the nearest table, his long legs were 
dangling, his hat was at the true Australian angle, 
and his smile was as broad as was his accent. 

An hour later, with a half-dozen of these vigorous 
young giants as escort, we made the tour of what 
was once a town. We did better than merely to 
mourn and grieve and marvel over the completeness 
of the destruction of Villers-Bretonneux. Boston, 
New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago had given me 
that which opened to me what might have been 
every door, but was commonly merely a yawning 
hole in a crumbling wall, which made every face 
that came forth to gape and gaze and finally to 
blaze with surprised delight that of a grateful 
friend, as garments, hoods, boots, and clothing for 
young and old were showered to the outstretched 
hands. 

There were no people in town? Every cellar, 
each bit of still standing wall or roof that yielded 
semblance of a possible shelter, rooms that had been 
built with tole for roofs, and windows that had 
oiled paper for glass — from cellars, crumbling in- 
teriors, and cavernous abodes — there rose up a small 
army of returned refugees. The cries of joy, the 
happy laughter, the glad shouts of the children, the 
continued chorus of grateful thanlcs from the men 
and women, were like unto a chant, one that seemed 
to mock the ruins and to defy the fates. 

Women left their kettles, the latter hung, gipsy- 
fashion, over three bits of iron, beneath which burned 
feebly an uncertain fire; childi'en were extricated 

383 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

from perilous adventures amid mounds of mortar 
and cement; babes at the breast found the maternal 
fount temporarily removed, that women, children, 
and nursing infants might each have their share of 
"les doux Americains.'" 

To see them re-enter their dilapidated dwellings; 
to look upon them crawling into dark cellars, into 
holes in crumbling walls, with faces irradiate with 
the delight born of the possessorship of warm cloth- 
ing and some bags of food, was to learn the true 
meaning of the words "le pays." 

Villers-Bretonneux in ruins was still home. Cold, 
hunger, discomfort, poverty, and surrounding deso- 
lation could be endured with Spartan courage, since 
these citizens were ""chez eux." 

There is no killing a people cuirassed with such 
virtues, with such a love of country, of their own 
■particular bit of country. This is the "country" the 
Frenchman toils to inhabit, fights for, and returns 
to work for and rebuild. 



CHAPTER XXVI 

THE BATTLE OF AMIENS 



^T^IIE imperative reason for beginning one's tour 
-"■ of the battlefields in and about Amiens is found 
in the fact that the battle of Amiens was the turning 
of the tide in the fortunes of the Allied armies in 
1918 — a victory our American forces helped to win. 

Who can forget the growing horror that possessed 
the civilized world as the Germans began their 
audacious offensive on March 21, 1918? Who that 
lived through those four days of gathering terror 
can fail to measure every other dread as puerile 
compared to the marching on and on of that seem- 
ingly irresistible force of the German army? 

The battle that was to be the decisive battle of 
the war was prepared with a care and precision, 
its initial advance was executed with a secrecy and 
skill, that warranted the German boast that this 
was to be "The Storm of Peace." It was to be, in- 
deed, "The Peace Offensive." 

Two hundred and eight divisions were assembled 
under cover of long nights of silent, soundless 
marches. The attack was opened by the belching 

385 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

fortli along a front of sixty miles and to a depth of 
twelve miles of a vast sea of gas projected by toxic 
obus {ohus toxique) hours before dawn. General 
Gough's Fifth English Army was entirely submerged 
by that poisonous attack. Telephone liaisons were 
cut, the smoke of the mounting waves of gas made 
optical telegraphy impossible. The utmost con- 
fusion and panic ensued. Almost immediately fol- 
lowing the deadening gas attack the German in- 
fantry poured over the top, rushing the English first 
line and destroying, as they swept onward, thousands 
of soldiers with their Minenwerfer. 

In the incredibly short space of four hours from 
the moment of attack, so great had been the surprise, 
that Gough's first line of defenses was either entirely 
destroyed or was rendered completely useless. 

By nine o'clock the Germans were masters of their 
positions. They were entering the open country. 
They had pierced the English front and the rout of 
General Gough's Fifth Ai'my was complete. How 
could fourteen divisions hold against the thirty 
divisions of General von Hutier's army and the ten 
divisions of General von der Marwitz? 

On and on the Germans swept in their triumphant 
march. Champagne and Picardy were overrun in 
four short days' time. This time the triumphant 
German cry, "Nach Parisr'' reverberated to inflate 
the German hopes to the giddy certainty of quick 
triumph. 

In these four short days the most masterly German 
military feat of the long war had brought their forces 

38G 



THE BATTLE OF AMIENS 

a distance of one hundred and twenty-five Idlo- 
meters, almost to their objective — to Amiens. 

The Germans were once more in the "heart of 
France." And the heart of the world seemed to 
stand still, to lose its beat. For were Amiens to 
fall, what hope was there for Paris — for Calais .^^ 

The design of the audacious enemy offensive had 
for its chief purpose the cutting of the lines of com- 
munication between the French and the English 
lines. 

It is to the immortal honor of General Haig that, 
seeing tliis appalling peril, conscious of its imminent 
accomplishment, he should have acted with the 
despatch and energy of a born commander. 

Under the dome of the great hall in which 
L' Academic Frangaise holds its meetings, not many 
days ago. President Poincare, in impassioned elo- 
quence and in classic phrase, set for us the moving 
scene that resulted from General Haig's quick 
action. The President of the French Republic was 
the speaker designated to respond to the speech 
made by Marechal Foch, on the occasion of the 
Marechal's reception as a member of the Forty 
Immortals. 

The all but fatal situation of the Allied cause 
was thus graphically set forth: 

"Ham, Peronne have fallen; Noyon is on the eve 
of being taken; the enemy is marching toward 
Montdidier to open the road to Amiens and to 
cut the communications between us and the English. 
The peril is so great that the French General-in- 

387 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Chief, doubtful of being able to keep in touch with 
the Allies, whose retreat continues, gives instructions 
to his lieutenants which foreshadow a fatal separa- 
tion. General Haig writes from Abbeville that the 
eventual break between the English and French 
armies is only a question of time. Thus for want of 
a supreme command and of a controlling will the 
French army will doubtless be forced to diverge 
toward the south and the English army to retreat 
toward its base on the Channel. In a very brief 
space of time the catastrophe will have happened. 

"General Haig saw the danger and telegraphed 
to the head of the British headquarters to beg of him 
to come to France with a member of the English 
Cabinet, and to ask for the naming of a supreme 
command. Lord Milner and General Wilson ar- 
rived on the 25th [March]" — five days after the 
Germans had started their offensive. 

On the same day the President went on to say 
that he and Monsieur Clemenceau, with Lord Milner 
and General Wilson, went on to Compiegne to meet 
General Petain, "and we all agreed on a rendezvous 
for the morrow at Soullens, where we should meet 
General Haig." 

Of that eventful and historic meeting at Soullens, 
President Poincare presented a moving and brill- 
iantly realistic picture. 

"Beyond Amiens the roads were filled with Eng- 
lish troops already marching north against the bitter 
March wind that stings their faces. When we leave 
our carriage General Haig is still conferring with his 

388 



THE BATTLE OF xVMIENS 

army commanders. In order not to interrupt him, 
we walk up and down the little square of the Hotel 
de Ville for more than an hour. . . . We mount at 
last up to the great Hall of the Mairie, and there a 
conference is held which throws light on the perfect 
concord existing between the two governments, and 
also the patriotic disinterestedness of General Haig 
and General Petain." 

The result of the meeting was the unanimous con- 
sent of the governments to hand over to General 
Foch the co-ordinating of the action of the Allied 
armies on the western front. In early April the 
general received the supreme command. 

Such was the gift the Germans gave to the Allied 
cause! Territory, loot, plunder, guns, prisoners by 
the thousands — the Germans had won all of these 
in their triumphant march in four short days across 
125 kilometers of open country. 

It was reserved for that dynamic force we know 
as Marcchal Foch, for that power crowned with the 
triple crown of intellectual, spiritual, and military 
genius, to forge a stupendous victory out of what 
seemed to presage the crushing defeat of Allied 
hopes. 

II 

In the months that followed, Amiens must wait 
until the early days of August to be freed from the 
dread of enemy capture. 

With the fall of Montdidier, the railway connecting 
Paris and Amiens had been cut — a serious blow to 

26 389 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

both English and French maneuvers, and to their 
communicating Hues of resources and munitions. 

In early April, however, Foch's masterly leader- 
ship begins to prove its genius. With Haig, P4tain, 
and Fayolle, a superb counter-offensive saves the 
French coast. The many attacks on Rheims and 
Villers-Cotterets fail. The French front holds. And, 
later, in July, "it seems," says President Poincare, 
"at last, as you expressed it, that we had arrived at 
one of the solemn moments where an army on the 
field of battle feels itself pushed onward, as though 
it slid along an inclined plane. . . . From the summit 
which we have gained we now perceive the enemy 
which begins to yield and the victory that calls us." 



Ill 

One of these "solemn moments" in the ascending 
tide of the Allied fortunes had been the surprise the 
American troops gave the world — as well as the 
amazed and incredulous Germans. 

The American valor was to be triumphantly proved 
in the battles about Amiens. For the moment had 
come for Foch's great counter-offensive. 

The general knew now he had the American legions 
behind him. He had hundreds of thousands of 
trained American reserves to draw on. That noble 
gesture of General Pershing's when, at the darkest 
moment of the Allied fortunes, he had rushed to 
General Foch's headquarters to present him with 
"all I have" in men and munitions, had been 

390 



THE BATTLE OF AMIENS 

seconded by one of the most astounding military 
feats of organization ever performed by a nation 
three thousand miles away — the sending of nearly 
three hundred thousand troops across the ocean. 

In August, therefore, Foch said, "The Entente 
must now strike with redoubled force." With the 
Generals Haig, Rawlinson, and Debeney, the gen- 
eralissimo's first plan was to relieve Amiens and to 
reconquer Montdidier. 

It is at Hamel, and later at Montdidier, Americans 
should begin the tour of inspection of this northern 
battlefield. For here Foch wrested the offensive 
from Ludendorff, here the whole German plan was 
upset, and in these victories the Germans suffered 
those first crushing defeats that led to the armistice. 

At both Hamel and Montdidier the American 
troops in liaison with the British and French forces 
were to show those daring fighting qualities that 
were to win not only the admiration of their allies, 
but were to prove valor that was further to pre- 
cipitate the disintegrating of the morale of the en- 
emy and of the German civil population. 

At Hamel, where Australians and Americans were 
brigaded together, the forces were greatly aided in 
their gallant attack by the tanks, whose efficiency 
had lately suffered an eclipse. But here, in this 
drive, the tanks proved to be astonishing in their 
facilities and methods of maneuvermg, arousing the 
greatest enthusiasm and intensifying the confidence 
of the attacking troops. 

Over the top and away, tliese "men from the 

391 



UP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

Antipodes" carried everything before them. The 
objectives were reached, positions held, prisoners 
taken by the hundreds, and machine-guns ''smashed 
to bits under heavy weight of metaL" 

Referring to these and to the later attacks along 
these salients, Philip Gibbs wrote: 

To nie and to manj' of lis there is sometliing that stirs us 
deeply, in the sight of Amiens from the fields all around that 
country north and south of the Somme, where the Aus- 
tralian and American troops are fighting. The cathedral is 
seen with its high roof and thin spire vague as a shadow in the 
sky, but splendid in the imagination of the men who have 
walled up its great nave and seen the glory of its sculpture. 

Every few yards gained of the ground above the valley of 
the Somme by English or French or American troops insures 
the greater safety of that old city our men have learned to know 
and admire because of its beauty and the good life lived there. 

The lovely city the Germans coveted was, how- 
ever, shortly to be freed from danger of German 
conquest or spoliation. 

On Saturday, August 10th, Montdidier fell to the 
French First Army. In this tremendous struggle of 
the Allied troops (British, Americans, Australians, 
and French) for the possession of this important 
salient, there were eight thousand prisoners taken, two 
hundred guns, and an enormous amount of material. 

The stirring accounts given of the going into 
action of the Americans records one of the thrilling 
episodes of our army. In order to be on time to get 
over the top at the appointed time, the Americans 
made a forced march; during the last kilometers 
they ran. A smoke screen lifted as they went into 

392 



THE BATTLE OF AMIENS 

action, and the Americans found themselves at once 
at grips with the Germans. 

The figliting at Montdidier was of tlie most ex- 
haustive order. The town is on a hill; the Germans 
were strongly intrenched, with machine-gims playing 
their deadly fire on the troops rushing the sides of 
the rising ground. 

And the conquering Allies, in possession of the 
wrecked town (for there is no longer any town of 
Montdidier), the soldiers must fight the Germans in 
the cellars, in the attics — or such as were still standing. 

This face-to-face combat was a struggle of giants. 
The three days' battle was one of tlie titanic battles 
of the war. 

With the fall of Montdidier, Amiens's fate was 
secure, the Paris-Amiens railroad recaptured, Paris 
was saved, and the world could breathe freely again. 

At Chateau-Thierry and the Argonne our Amer- 
ican troops were to continue to win the laurels and 
to hasten the dawn of victory. 

What had been accomplished by the Allied armies 
in less than a month was as follows: 

Enemy forces numbering three hunch'ed thousand 
men had been defeated and driven back in confusion; 
three hundred guns and hundreds of thousands of 
prisoners had been taken; immense booty and stores 
of provisions had been captured; the great railway 
to the north had been disengaged; and the British, 
French, and American forces had been welded into 
an unbreakable whole. . . . 

Paris had been under the bombing attacks of the 

393 



TIP THE SEINE TO THE BATTLEFIELDS 

long-range German gun since March 26th; had been 
in its turn under fire. 

American aviators had discovered its position be- 
tween Ham and Guiscard, north of Noyon. 

In these great battles about Amiens and Mont- 
didier, "Foch brought the war back to the days of 
the great historic battles, where ability plays an 
essential part. A great soldier had appeared at last, 
and once more the battlefields of Europe are swayed 
under the spell of genius." 

As Xerxes sat on his golden throne to watch the 
disaster of Salamis, so the German Emperor had 
sat, placed where he might best note what were to 
have been the triumphs of his "Friedersturm." 

But it was his downfall and not "world power" 
to which mistaken German military councils were 
to lead. The Imperial Command had headed 
straight for military defeat and the suicide of the 
Hohenzollern dynasty. 

The great day broke on November 8th. The Ger- 
mans, sooner than meet the fate of being strangled 
on the Meuse, unable to reach Germany, "there was 
no other issue than a capitulation in open country." 

And thus ended the greatest war in history. 
Marechal Foch had added to "all the glories of 
France" — "d ioutes les gloires de la Frcmce'' — that 
of having saved the most sacred of all — that of 
civilisation and the liberty of the world. 



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■^ ^ ''^ «^ ^^ »^ •■0 ^ A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATIOM 

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